


Hail to the High King

by The_Changamire



Series: High Kingdom of the North [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aegon's Conquest, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And I'm not ashamed of it, Andals - Freeform, Anti-Targaryen, BLOOD FOR THE OLD GODS, Blood Magic, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Children of the Forest, F/M, High Kingdom of the North, House Stark, Human Sacrifice, Independent North (ASoIaF), Just Pure Starkwank, Kinda, Magic, Mountain Clans, Pro-Stark, Rhoynar, SKULLS FOR THE WOLF THRONE, Starkwank, The First Men, The Grand Northern Conspiracy, The King in The North, The Kings of Winter - Freeform, The North (ASOIAF), The North has Giants, The Old Tongue is Scottish Gaelic, the doom of valyria
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:20:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25039135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Changamire/pseuds/The_Changamire
Summary: During the Andal Invasions of lower Westeros, prince Theon Stark dreams of a dark future yet to pass, prompting his father to go North and make peace with the Freefolk.Meanwhile, the remaining Children of the Forest flee North. And because of this, the fate of the North changes for the better.
Series: High Kingdom of the North [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1813402
Comments: 69
Kudos: 367





	1. Of Seven-Star Banners and Snow-Covered Starks

_**“Hail to the Magnar! Hail to the King in the North! Hail to the Stark in Winterfell! Hail to the High King!”** -Rallying cry of the High Kingdom of the North_  
  
Westeros changed with the coming of the Andals.  
  
Foreign sails were sighted off the shores of the Vale, and soon the Bronze Kings, as well as the many other petty Kings of the Vale found themselves under siege in their mountain keeps, their armies defeated by the steel-bearing invaders, the Weirwoods burned, their people converted by the sword, and their territory reduced day by day.  
  
The First Men of the Vale fought valiantly and fought hard, the coalition led by the Bronze King Yorwyk Royce VI winning many victories against the invading Andals, giving hope to many that the Old Ways would survive the Andals. Alas, the armies of the Vale were routed at the Battle of Seven Stars, and the Andals gained their first hold on Westeros. The Arryns claimed the Vale as theirs, the Bronze Kings were cast from their thrones, and those who did not bend fled to the Mountains of the Moon, determined to never surrender. And, Old Gods be good, they never did.

* * *

The Riverlands faired no better. Soon after the conquest of the Vale, the Andal invaders, bolstered by levies from the conquered Vale Kings, marched up the Trident, founding their own, small Kingdoms as they went. The petty Kings of the region did their best to resist, but constant defeats in the battlefields, betrayals, and captured keeps all ensured the fall of the Riverlands to the Andals.

Yet, hope was not lost. Tristifier Mudd VI, considered to be the greatest of the River Kings, led his armies against the invaders, slaughtering Andals left and right, killing lords and smashing hosts ninety-nine times. Unfortunately for the Mudds, and by proxy the First Men of the Riverlands, Tristifier was slain in his hundredth battle by a group of seven Andal Kings attacked him at once, and so the Old Ways were lost to the Riverlands. Tristifier heir, Tristifier V, did his best to emulate his father’s victories, but to no avail. Thus, the Mudd Kingdom collapsed under the weight of the Andal heel, and the First Men of the Riverlands bent. Cracklaw Point faired better than the others, yet they two were brought to heel, not by sword, but through marriage. And with marriage came the Seven Pointed Stars, and the Weirwoods burnt to ash.

During all this, with the burning of the sacred groves, the Children were being cut down on sight, hailed abominations by the septons of the Seven Pointed Star. Out of desperation, they fled the Riverlands, seeking haven in the remaining lands of the First Men, where the Weirwoods still grew. One of those places was the Isle of Faces, where any and all Andal armies sent to subjugate the holy land were defeated by ‘dark sorcery,’ as all the Andal armies disappeared off the face of the Known World upon landing on the Isle. Yet, the Children of the Isle would never set foot in the Riverlands again, for just as the Riverlanders abandoned the Children, they would do the same.

* * *

The Andals were not prepared to deal with the Storm Lords.

While the Andals made much ground earlier in their conquest, King Qarlton III put an end to that temporarily, defeating the invaders in several battles, as well as passing on his battle prowess to his successors. The Battle of the Bronzegate saw Monfryd Durrandon V saw the Holy Brotherhood of the Andals defeated, albeit at the cost of his own life, yet the Andals recovered from the setback, pushing the Storm Kings back and seizing Tarth and Estermont as their own. In response, to halt the expansion of the Andals, King Baldric the Cunning played an archaic version of The Game, pitting several Andal Kings against each other, attacking each other as well as the lords of Cape Wrath. His successor, King Durran XXIV, allied with the Children of the Forest, both local and refugees who had fled the Vale and the Riverlands, forging the Weirwood Alliance and defeating the Andals at the Black Bog, the Misty Wood, and the Howling Hill, halting the decline of the Storm Kings for a time.

In the end, the Stormlands were Andalized through marriage, as the last viable Andal armies in the Stormlands were defeated by King Cleodon I and smashed next to Storm’s End, forcing the petty Andal Kings and warlords in the area to bend to the Fury. Yet, even after cowing the Andals, the Faith of the Seven was accepted, the Weirwoods burnt once again, and the Children slain or forced to flee.

So the Children fled, to the last bastion of the Pact, where the Weirwoods still thrived, where the Old Tongue was still spoken.

North.

And the Kings of Winter met them with open arms.

* * *

At the end of the Long Night, Brandon the Builder married a Child of the Forest. Many often forgot that the blood of the Children ran through the veins of the Starks, but they did not. Neither did the Children, who fled North to seek refuge with their human kin.  
  
Theon Stark knew this. In fact, he knew a great many things. He had seen the Andals invading from his bedchambers in his sleep, had seen the Weirwoods burn and the Children wail.  
  
All this, he saw, at the age of two-and-ten.  
  
It did not take the Green Men long to realize that the future King of Winter had been blessed with a vision, a vision that foretold of a dark future if correct. So, Theon’s father, Eddard, now known to most in the North as Eddard the Unifier, did something that many Kings of Winter had done before; he went North of the Wall. But, he did not go to fight the Freefolk. King Eddard went to invite them, to the chagrin of many. He invited them North, promised them the lands of the _Crùn Magnar._ They would be allowed to retain their autonomy, so long as they ceased raiding the North and fought in the armies of the King in the North when called upon.  
  
At first, many of the Freefolk were suspicious of such an offer, and yet many more sneered at it. So it came as a surprise to all when the Magnar of the Giants, Crann, fell to one knee and pledged fealty to the Stark.  
  
The Giants had long memories. While the First Men may have forgotten the threat that came from the Lands of Always Winter, they did not. They also did not forget the pact they had made with the Builder thousands of years ago, and though it may have ended with the death of Brandon, Crann used the audience with King Eddard to renew it.  
  
Eddard was, of course, shocked and mildly cautious at this turn of events; he had expected weeks of negotiating and hassling, and of all the Freefolk to accept his offer, least of all had he expected the Giants to do so. A thousand plans raced through the Stark’s head as he thought of ways to improve every keep in the North, for even South of the Wall the work of the Giants was renowned.  
  
The next to pledge fealty were the Thenns of the valley, feeling more akin to the Northerners than their significantly more barbaric neighbors. Eddard accepted, taking note of the strange, furry goats the Thenns, and many other Freefolk, had brought with them, already planning on how to manage the new animal when it was brought with them.  
  
All in all, a good half of the Freefolk chose to accept, lured by promises of warm Summers and green pastures, while the other half denounced them and returned to their homes to feud and fight with each other.  
  
Whilst leading the Freefolk back to the Wall, Eddard had a dream. Not like his son’s, no. He had a wolf dream, which led him to wake in the night and follow a path unseeable by humans in the dark, and there, in the Haunted Forest, he found a den filled with Direwolves, tended to by a Child of the Forest.  
  
To the Child he offered his reverent greetings, and to the Winter King the Child offered the wolves, and who was Eddard to refuse such a blessing?  
  
Two weeks after setting out from the Wall, King Eddard returned at the head of a great host made of Giants, mammoths, goats, and Freefolk alike. Upon allowing them to pass through the Wall, the Stark personally led them to their new homes, supplying farmer, Green Men, and druids to help the Freefolk in building their new community. To the Giants, he invited them to Winterfell, to view the keep their ancestors had built, and they agreed.  
  
So it was the Eddard Stark, King in the North, rode to his keep flanked by Giants and Direwolves, a sight for all to see.  
  
And, when Eddard finally returned home, Theon’s dreams changed.


	2. The Breaking of the Andals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Andals make a mistake.

_**“BRISEADH NA ANDALS AG AN MUINEÁL!”** -Crannog battle cry during the Breaking of the Andals_  
  
  
Many things happened in the two decades after King Eddard brought the Freefolk south, and the time during his foray beyond the Wall and the coronation of Theon Stark would be known to the North as the Years of Unification. The unruly Freefolk were assimilated into Northern society as smoothly as possible, helped by their kindred belief in the Old Way, bolstered even further by the influx of Children now tending to the Weirwoods and the wargs they had taken to teach..  
  
Thirteen years after bringing the Freefolk south, Eddard finally brought the Red Kings to heel with the defeat of Red King Rogar Bolton, crushing his host outside the Dreadfort, said host supplemented by the Giants under Magnar Crann, and the Childrens’ best hunters. King Rogar bent not an hour after the battle was ended, his sons taken as hostages/wards of Winterfell, the Bolton lands reduced to vassalage, and redistributed amongst those who had fought for the Starks. The Boltons would forever remain vassals to the Starks, never forgetting the power they boasted through their Forest kindred and Giant allies. And although later generations of Boltons would seethe and gnash their teeth and curse the names of Robar and Eddard alike, the banners of the Red Kings would never rise again.  
  
Even with the Boltons being reduced to vassalage, they would always be watched with wary eyes by Clan Stark, never being counted amongst the most loyal of Winterfell’s vassals, like the Reeds of the Marsh, the Karstarks of Karhold, the Mormonts of Bear Island, the Greystarks of the Wolf's Den, the Umbers of the Last Hearth, or the Cranns of Jotun’s Seat.  
  
And they had earned the undying enmity of the Mountain Clans, but they had been fanatically loyal to the Stark in Winterfell since time immemorial, and rarely left their mountain homes regardless.  
  
The King in the North spent his last years warily watching the South as the Andal invaders overran the last of kingdoms of the First Men while simultaneously working with his druids and Greenmen to replicate the fabled metal the invaders carried. The result, after the bests weaponsmiths in the North convened with the children, was Iron Ice, a sort of bronze strengthened by the magicks wielded by the Children of the Forest, and reddened by the blood needed for said magick to begin it’s work. While it was not on-par with Valyrian Steel, which still confused the Children even to that day, it was only slightly lower in quality than the iron the Andals fielded, though harder to produce. Nonetheless, is is with Iron Ice that the King in the North outfitted his men, although the excess bronze did not go to waste.  
  
It is said that Magnar Crann greatly enjoyed the armor Eddard gifted him.  
  
Eddard died four years later with the moniker of ‘the Unifier,’ content with the state of the unified Kingdom of the North, and met the embrace of the Old Gods surrounded by family, human and Forest Child alike. Theon Stark, already known to many as ‘the Farseer,’ or ‘the Dreamer,’ ascended the Winter Throne and inherited a kingdom in a time of relative peace. He ruled just as well as his father, perhaps even more so, with the guidance of his dreams, further cultivated by the teachings of the Children and Greenmen, and all was well.  
  
Then, at last, the Andals came.  
  


\---

  
Drygir Stark had never seen his brother so wroth before.  
  
The King of Winter had woke up in a rage, and had rushed about Winterfell ordering his Oathsworn to prepare to march on the Dreadfort, and ravens had been sent flying to both the Wolf's Den and Jotun’s Seat. it was only later in the day when Drygir cornered his brother in the Godswood did Theon inform him of his latest ‘greendream.’  
  
“The Andals will butcher their way up the Sheepshead Hills and attack the Dreadfort. Another Andal host from the _abhain_ lands marches on Jotun’s Seat as we speak, to be reinforced by men of the Vale. I won’t be able to save the Sheepshead, but the Andals _will_ be destroyed at Jotun’s Seat. You will take one-third of my Oathsworn and join with the host of Cranns and the Reeds and _break_ them.”  
  
Drygir was silent for a moment. “As you say, Theon. But… you say you won’t be able to save the Sheepshead, as if the Andals have already landed. How so?”  
  
“I’ve seen things, _deartháir beag_ ,” Theon growled, “that make my blood boil in anger. Men butchered in their sleep, women raped and abducted, Weirwoods burned, our people converted by the sword. The gods are cruel in that regard; they show me things, but sometimes never soon enough to prevent them. The invaders will reach the Dreadfort before I will, and the people of the Sheepshead will suffer it.”  
  
“Then what do you intend to do?” Drygir asked, and before Theon answered, he already knew his older brother’s answer.  
  
“For every inch of blood they draw from our people, I will spill _tenfold_. For every Weirwood burned, a dozen Septs shall be brought low. For every man, woman, or child butchered, I will raze their homes to the ground. For the suffering they wrought upon the Children, our _kin_ , Andalos shall weep blood and salt for generations.  
  
I swear it on earth and water.  
  
I swear it on bronze and iron.  
  
I sweat it on ice and fire.”  
  
Theon paused for a moment, then grinned. “I hear Andalos has never experienced Winter. Well, they need not come here to do so.  
  
I shall bring the Winter to them.”  
  


\---

  
The Battle of the Weeping Waters would go down as several things in the history of the Southern kingdoms and the High Kingdom of the North: the ultimate cause of the Wolf’s Crossing, the first and only Andal army to step foot in the Winter hinterlands, the first time the Starks and Boltons fought alongside each other on the battlefield and not on opposite sides, and the ‘true’ beginning of the reign of Theon the Hungry Wolf.  
  
True to his dreams, the Sheepshead Hills had been looted, every village between the Andals and the Dreadfort burnt to husks, along with their Weirwoods. Most of their inhabitants were spared so long as they renounced the heathen gods of the North, but the Children who lived alongside the Northerners were given no choice besides fleeing and being run down, or being burnt alongside the Weirwoods.  
  
Theon kept careful count.  
  
The Andals had been assaulting the walls of the Dreadfort for several hours when the King of Winter’s Oathsworn fell upon them like wolves to a wounded stag, and the battle turned into a butchering field as the Boltons sallied from their walls. Argos Sevenstars was captured during the fighting and brought before Theon, who handed him over to Olomond Bolton, who in turn had him Blood Eagle'd before the combined Stark and Bolton hosts. When the Andal warlord had finally died after nearly three hours of excruciating pain, Theon had the Children preserve the body of Argos, and turned his host back south.  
  
Foolishly, Argos had done nothing to secure his ships upon landing, and soon after they had been acquired by the Greystarks and sailed to the Wolf's Den, to which Theon began his march, inviting the Boltons along, who accepted. Combined with the ships commissioned decades ago, the King of Winter had more than enough ships in his navy to keep his oath.  
  
Upon reaching the Wolf's Den, the Hungry Wolf turned to Andalos.  
  
It was said that the Heart Tree in Winterfell weeped for joy all during the duration of Theon’s ‘stay’ in Andalos.

  
\---

  
The Andals under King Jonathen, a petty king of the Riverlands, numbered about seventy-thousand sword, pulled from levies and sellswords from all corners of Andalic-Westeros, some under the command of a lord or king, most looking for either glory or service to the Seven. For the septons of the Andalic kingdoms had proclaimed a crusade, to bring the last bastion of the pagan forest gods to heel, to purge the blasphemers from the land, and install the Seven-Pointed Star to its rightful place as the only pantheon in Westeros. And so the invaders marched, up the Trident, past the Vale, and into the Neck.  
  
A mistake many would repeat over the coming decades.  
  
The marshes of the Neck swallowed the Andal army whole. Hundreds died to strange fevers every month spent navigating the cold and hostile land, and every night they Andals were hounded by the Crannogmen, who slowly, but surely, were not only whittling away at their numbers, but controlling the speed at which the host made their way to Jotun’s Seat. At one point nearly a thousand men rose up in mutiny against King Jonathen, though they were put down, and the next dissertations happened much more quietly. All the while, Drygir Stark prepared.  
  
King Jonathen entered the Neck with seventy-thousand, and emerged with fifty.  
  
And then, finally, thank the Seven, they reached Jotun’s Seat, known to them as Moat Cailin.  
  
And, seeing as making camp outside such a fortress would be suicidal, Jonathan ordered the closest trees cut down, turned into ladders and makeshift rams, and prepared to assault the walls. And, after a nerve-racking night spent in sight of both the Marsh and Jotun’s Seat, with no arrows peppered at them, they Andals attacked at dawn.  
  
The Breaking of the Andals, while not the only battle to take place under the walls of Jotun’s Seat, was the largest battle the armies North had seen since the Long Night, and it was the first time in recorded history that Andals encountered Giants and Children, though the survivors were never believed upon their disgraceful return.  
  
The Andals threw themselves against the walls of Jotun’s Seat almost desperately, and their vigor increased when the Crannogmen, led by Jojen Reed, finally made themselves known, attacking their lightly defended camp and killing King Jonathen, who had dined to remain behind the first wave. Once the Crannogs had slain every Andal that had remained in camp, they set fire to the tents, and waited.  
  
Then the gates of Jorun’s Seat came open, and out came the might of the North.  
  
The King of Winter’s Oathsworn, led by Drygir Stark, who is said to have run into battle wielding the ancestral Valyrian claymore Ice in his hands with a black Direwolf at his side. Behind them came the Giants, armored in bronze and leather, wielding bronze-tipped trees and wooden shields the size of walls. Above them, the Children of the Forest rained fire down on the ones who had forced them from their homes, and the Crannogmen charged them from behind.  
  
And the Andals broke.  
  


\---

  
Seventy-thousand men marched on the North.  
  
Fifty-thousand made it through the Neck.  
  
Two-thousand lived to tell the tale.


	3. Iron, Flesh, and Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Kraken seeks to fight a Bear.

While Drygir broke the Andals under the walls of Jotun’s Seat and Theon razed their homeland to the ground, the Ironborn stirred from their island homes, eyeing the lumber-laden lands of the North with envy and greed.  
  
Harrag Hoare, ruler of the Iron Islands and King on the Seastone Chair, thinking the North weakened from both the Breaking of the Andals and the Wolf’s Crossing, set his Iron Fleet to the sail, moving up the western coast of the Stony Shore, leaving a good portion of ships filled with reavers to raid, loot, and burn the Stony Shore for lumber and other goods, before sailing further north to conquer Bear Island.  
  
As it was, the longships he left behind were never seen under Ironborn banners again, and neither where the Ironborn left behind, the local Children of the Forest taking non-too-kindly to the Ironborn attempting to cut down the Weirwoods along with the pine and ironwood of the North, and… dealt with them accordingly.  
  
Those Ironborn would not meet their god in the drowned halls. They would meet gods far older, and far less lenient to them.  
  
While the Ironborn in the Stony Shore were slaughtered to the last, Harrag and his fleet finally caught sight of Bear Island. No doubt the Ironborn had been expecting little more than fishing boats to meet their longships, easy pickings for them, just as they had done dozens of times before.  
  
They found instead, instead of a fishing fleet and a fishing village, a walled coastal port large enough to rival the early days of the Wolf’s Den, and a Northern Navy filled to the brim with warriors and Mormont berserkers, baying for salt blood. Horrag, never one to back down, called for his Iron Fleet to attack the Mormont-led enemy navy, and so they did.  
  
And so they died.  
  
Since the late days of the Unifier, Skinchangers had started to become commonplace in the armies of the North, thanks to the teachings of the Freefolk and the children. Among them, the Mormonts stood as exemplars even amongst other Skinchangers. It was said, instead of Skinchanging into their beasts, the beasts Skinchanged into the Mormont Skinchangers, possessing them with inhuman strength and robbing them of much sense. Against a Mormont, one would be hard-pressed to win in battle. Against a Mormont beserker?  
  
There was little chance of the unfortunate enemy surviving the night.  
  
And that is the fate that befell the Iron Fleet. The Mormonts, led by Magnar Bjorn Mormont, smashed the Ironborn, Bjorn slaying the son and heir of the King on the Seastone Chair, cleaving Ravos Hoare in two while under a berserker rage and taking his skull as an ornament for his keep. Hoare himself was wounded and captured by the Northmen, and promptly sacrificed to a Weirwood, and the Ironborn retreated back to the salty isles they called home, to stew and simmer until Erich the Eagle rose to take vengeance for his father.  
  
He too would fail, and the Ironborn would turn away from the North for the rest of Theon’s reign.  
  


* * *

  
During his journey home, Theon had another dream, and took several ships on a detour to Skagos, having been directed their by his dreams.  
  
Two-and-ten minutes after landing, he was nearly gored to death by a wild unicorn.  
  
Were it not for the quick thinking of a Skagosi Magnar who had been hunting nearby, Drygir would have found himself in a position never meant to be it. Old Gods be good, that came not to pass, and Theon lived to see another day. That day saw him visit the oppidums of the Skagosi Magnars, who each knelt and pledged their loyalty to the Great Magnar, the King in the North, the Stark in Winterfell, and the High King of the First Men.  
  
Theon, quite obviously, was confused as to why the Skagosi had knelt with no provocation. Only when Magnar Claech, the one who had saved him, explained to the King why his greendreams had brought him here did Theon gain a semblance of understanding.  
  
Claech led the Winter King to a sacred grove, where a Child of the Forest waited, and greeted him, as well as warned Theon of dark days to come, and the need for Skagos, although his warnings were cryptic, even to the Farseer. But, Theon accepted the word of his kin, and sailed home with the fealty of the Magnars of Skagos.  
  
The Hungry Wolf returned home a hero, met with tales of the Breaking of the Andals and giving his own of the Wolf’s Crossing and Skagos. He met his brother Drygir, now with the moniker ‘the Breaker’ with clasped arms and a grin on his face, it was said, and the North rejoiced. Their King had returned unharmed from Andalos, the Andal hosts had been destroyed, and the Ironborn crippled for a generation.  
  
And the Wolves of the North returned to their den, and settled down for the coming winter, content to watch the Southrons squabble and feud amongst themselves. Theon, at one point, made to invade the Sisters, only for his Children kin to smack sense into him, so he capitulated to destroying any pirate ship that approached his coasts, but made no move south.  
  
And so it was that Theon Stark, the Hungry Wolf, the Dreamer, the Farseer, died with a belly full of the flesh of his enemies, Andal and Ironborn alike, and his son, Ulf Stark, inherited a peaceful Kingdom upon his coronation, where he inherited his father’s Skagosi-given titles; Ulf Stark, the Great Magnar, the King in the North, the Stark in Winterfell, and High King of the First Men, the first to officially hold the title since the legendary Garth Greenhand.  
  
The North was at peace, and stayed that way for many more centuries, breaking any Andal host stupid enough to traverse the Neck, and smashing any Iron Fleet foolish enough to sail the Stoney Shore. And all was well.  
  
Then, far in the East, past the prying eyes of the Green Men and Children, in the greatest civilization the world had ever seen, the Fourteen Flames simmered, then erupted.  
  


* * *

  
To the Southron kingdoms, the time that followed would be known as the Dark Days.  
  
To the High Kingdom of the North, the time that followed would be known as the Days of False Night.  
  
To the city-states of the East, the time that followed was known as the Century of Blood.  
  
To the last of Valyria, it was simply known as the Doom.


	4. Countdown to Conquest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The North recovers from the Doom of Valyria.

_**“Our gods have left us.”** -dying words of an unknown Child of the Forest_  
  
When the Doom came to Valyria, and the Fourteen Flames erupted in apocalyptic symphony, the collective communities of the Children of the Forest, for lack of better words, went to shit.  
  
One could only imagine the horror the Starks in WInterfell, as well as many others in the High Kingdom of the North, felt as many of their Forest Child kin seized up and screamed in-chorus, some collapsing from the strain (of _what,_ the people of the North had no idea for some time), others going into vegetative, catatonic states, and yet still others who simply dropped dead on the spot. Even the nursemaid of the current King of Winter, Ulric Stark, fell to the plagues that now ailed the Children, and died by the Heart Tree in Winterfell’s Weirwood grove, though not before murmuring several last words to the King.  
  
“ _Coimhead air na speuran_.”  
  
Look to the skies.  
  
After burning the body of his nursemaid, and scattering the ashes to the wind, as was the custom for the Children, King Ulric sent for the Lords of the North, and bade them journey to Winterfell, to discuss the unfortunate new state of the realm. Whilst the Northmen made their way to their liege-lord’s home, Ulric shut himself away in his solar, to the consternation of his family, and did not emerge until the last Northern Lord had arrived.  
  
When the Lords of the North finally gathered to discuss the fate of the Kingdom, none were surprised when the King of Winter ordered the levies conscripted, the banners raised, and the men marched to Winterfell’s gathering grounds. A few of them, however, were surprised when Ulric announced they would be marching on the Wall to ensure that no Wildling host (the remnants of those who had declined Eddard the Unifier’s offer) sought to raid the North in their time of discord, as well as to keep a wary eye out for things far… colder.  
  
However, several days after the ravens had been sent out, Ulric sat down with the Magnars of the Jotunmen to act on a glimpse of a vision he had seen while in isolation.  
  
The Jotunmen, the term used for the collective descendants of the Giants once led by Magnar Crann, had split into several distinctive groups all other the North in the many years since they had settled. The Cranns of Jotun’s Seat made up the last line of defense of the Neck, the now nigh-impregnable fortress formerly known as Moat Cailin now rivaling Winterfell in splendor and surpassing it in size. The Fuamhaires of Mammoth’s Hill tended to the mammoth herds of the North, as the name implied. The Cawrs of Dachaigah (a simple name, but the Northmen were simple people,) were the ones who armed and armored the Jotunmen in the army, forging armor and arms of bronze and iron, and more recently, steel.  
  
And then there were the Umbers.  
  
No one was sure _how_ they managed to obtain Giant blood into their family (a topic still fiercely debated amongst many), but the fact remained that most of the main line of Umbers had more Giant blood than they did human, and were considered kin by the other Jotunmen all the same.  
  
The Jotunmen, both the large Clans and smaller tribes, were fiercely loyal to their patron, and it was oft said that if the King of Winter ordered them to swim from the Stoney Shore to the Iron Islands, they would be in the water before the order was finished.  
  
Ulric Stark did not ask them to do that, no.  
  
He asked them to form an longbow company.  
  
Understandably, the Jotunmen were confused; there had been no true wars since the Folly of the Greystarks, and while the Oathsworn of Winterfell always maintained at least a thousand men at any given time, no other house did it, nor would they, for it was an unnecessary cost, especially in the face of Winter.  
  
However, their apprehension disappeared when the King informed them that the company would be paid for from the Stark’s own coffers. They left their meeting with the king with the instructions to raise three-hundred Jotunmen archers of the highest quality between them, and that they did. Seven moons after returning from Wall (where, to the relief of many, including the Children who were not incapacitated by the Doom, all was well Beyond the Wall), the best of the North’s Giantblood archers presented themselves to the King, and he formally recognized them as the _Luchd-faire nan speur_ , the Watchers of the Sky, or the Fianna.  
  
Then Ulric led them into the Wolfswood, away from prying eyes, and took them to a secluded Weirwood grove, and presented the three-hundred with one massive arrow each, with the order that they were to keep them close, keep them safe, and pass it down from father to son. When asked why, the King was said to have sighed morosely.  
  
“The Cranns and the Reeds are the shield of the North.  
  
I find that we will soon be in need of a sword.”  
  
Then the King swore all present to silence, binding their oaths before the gods, and they returned to Winterfell.  
  


* * *

  
The next few years, while peaceful, were rife with anxiety and worry. The Isle of Faces had all but ceased contact with the North, to the dismay of many, and the forming of the Fianna had worried many, especially since their placement next to Jotun’s Seat implied the King in the North was expecting some sort of invasion from the South, the visit from Radulf Royce all the way from Runestone doing nothing to quell the unease. Yet, Ulric said near-nothing on the subjects of either Royce’s visit or the Fianna, only informing his eldest son of his knowledge, who in turn would tell no one but _his_ eldest. As to _what_ was spoken, none besides the King in the North and the eldest Stark would know for decades more to come.  
  
Eventually, still reeling from the aftermath of the Doom, the Children began to recover, many having isolated themselves away in secluded Weirwood groves across the kingdom in hopes of healing their ailments, which thankfully seemed to work as intended. By then, news had reached the North of the Doom of Valyria, from the the two trading ships that had sail to the Wolf’s Den during the Century of Blood, the situation in Essos practically halting the meager trade that had connected the North to the East. Even so, the First Men suffered little for it, though Ulric would spend the rest of his reign looking to the skies, as if anticipating the arrival of an enemy.  
  
 _But, surely not_ , many dismissed offhandedly, _for what enemy could come from the skies?_  
  
As it would later turn out, only three.


	5. Conquest Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aegon.

_**“We are the Descendants of the Doom, the Children of Valyria, the Last Dragons. Lower your swords and surrender your holdfasts. Existence, as you know it, is over.”** -Excerpt from Aegon Targaryen’s ‘Declaration of Seven Kingdoms’_  
  
When the Andals came, they arrived in droves of thousands, on ships painted with the Seven-Pointed Star, plated in shining steel unlike that of which Westeros had ever seen.  
  
The Targaryens landed with barely fifteen-hundred men.  
  
Aegon Targaryen, the eldest son of one Lord Aerion Targaryen, hailed from one of the few families to escape the Doom of Valyria, and the only one who still held the ability to ride Dragons. In his early adult life, the heir to Dragonstone had been approached by envoys from Pentos and Tyrosh in a bid to throw off the yoke of Volantis.  
  
In exchange for a Braavosi fleet yet to come, the Targaryen flew from Dragonstone on dragonback and aided in the destruction of the Volantene fleet before returning home and turning his eyes to the West.  
  
Where the local inhabitants of Westeros, both Andal and First Man, saw a status quo that had been the norm for centuries, Aegon saw opportunity. Seven kingdoms in constant war, a continent divided, and no answer to warriors on dragonback.  
  
Most saw Westeros as seven kingdoms.  
  
Aegon saw the breeding ground of a reborn Valyrian Empire.  
  
So he begun to plan, having a painted table carved in the shape of Westeros, and begun to seek alliances on the mainland, to little avail, however. In one case, negotiations with Storm King Argilac Durrandon fell short when he offered his (bastard) brother for Argilac’s eldest daughter’s hand.  
  
Argilac responded by cutting off the hands of the envoy.  
  
A mistake.  
  
Seeing no further reason to delay his plans, Aegon called his banners, consulted with them, and sent declarations to the seven Kings of Westeros, proclaiming himself ‘King of All Westeros’ and ordering them to submit to his authority. Quite obviously, not one of the Kings did so, many not even bothering to send a reply.  
  
In truth, Aegon had expected that. Already, ships had been prepared to ferry his fifteen-hundred men to the mainland and begin work on the construction of a foothold, and soon, those ships set off, watched from above by Aegon and his sister-wives, Visenya and Rhaenys Targaryen.  
  
Landing at the mouth of Blackwater Brush, Aegon directed his forces to the highest hill and ordered that the construction of the ‘Aegonfort’ would commence there. Soon, the site was a cesspit of men and half-built wooden structures, even more so when support from Houses Velaryon, Celtigar, and Massey arrived to the Targaryen’s aid.  
  
From there, House Targaryen began to expand their holdings, House Stokeworth surrendering to Visenya after demonstrating the effectiveness of dragonfire on Castle Stokeworth’s roof, while House Rosby yielded to Rhaenys after a similar event. Not three months had passed and already five Houses had pledged loyalty to the fledgling Targaryen dynasty.  
  
While Aegon’s rapid expansion was, for the most part, without bloodshed, it was well known that it would not remain that way. And indeed it did not; an allied army of men from both Duskendale and Maidenpoole was soon marching south with three-thousand men to its name to contest the Targaryens’ growing power.  
  
Sending his brother Orys in command of two-thousand men, his host having been supplemented by the Houses now sworn under House Targaryen, Aegon, riding upon the back of his dragon Balerion, assisted his brother in defeating the allied host, descending on the enemy from above.  
  
The allied army, having never faced a dragon and having no way to counter it, quickly broke under the combined might of both dragonfire and Orys’ host. In the melee, Lords Darklyn of Duskendale and Mooton of Maidenpoole were slain, and the army routed. Upon approaching Maindepoole and Duskendale respectively, the reigning lord of the holdfasts opened lowered their swords and surrendered their keeps to the Conqueror.  
  
Returning victorious in his first battle on Westerosi shores, Aegon returned to find Aegonfort ever-growing and his own sister-wives returned victorious from their own minor conquests as well. It was there where Visenya crowned him with a circlet of Valyrian steel, studded with red rubies, and proclaimed him Aegon of House Targaryen, King of All Westeros, and Shield of His People.  
  


* * *

  
With morale high amongst the Targaryen troops, Aegon went on to order the attack on Gulltown, augmented by the promised Braavosi fleet, and proceeded to win the day with Visenya descending on dragonback to torch the enemy Arryn fleet, despite the lose of his admiral Daemon.  
  
With the loss of Gulltown, what few ships remained in the Arryn fleet fled towards the Three Sisters in a bid to put as much distance between the ships and the Dragons as possible, only to be later captured by the Sistermen, revolting against centuries-old Arryn rule and proclaiming lady Marla Sunderland to be their Queen, something that will continue to go on for several more years.  
  
Having ensured naval superiority in the coasts of Lower-Westeros, Aegon made for the Riverlands, under the rule of House Hoare of the Iron Islands. Despite the threat of dragonfire against any opposing force, the Targaryen host was assaulted two times during its march northwest, culminating in the Battle of the Reeds and a Targaryen victory, albeit a heavy one, despite managing to kill two of Harren the Black’s sons. Becoming desperate, Harren sent ravens to all the Houses of the Riverlands, commanding them to come to the aid of House Hoare and their Liege Lord.  
  
Instead of doing so, the Riverlords rallied behind Edmyn of House Tully, and, preferring to bend to the foreign invaders than suffer the cruelty of House Hoare any longer, joined up with Aegon’s host. In an ironic twist of fate, the Ironborn King found himself marooned from the ocean and besieged on land. Despite it all, he refused to surrender to Aegon, going so far as to dismiss the Targaryen King as “no concern to him” before retreating into his massive fortress.  
  
It was a mistake he would not live long enough to regret.  
  
Harren had the right of it. Stone does not burn.  
  
But the people inside?  
  
They most certainly do.  
  


* * *

  
While Aegon secured the loyalty of the Riverlands by appointing Edmyn Tully as Lord Paramount of the Trident, and gathered the melted swords of his foes and sending them to Aegonfort, the greater part of his host marched into the Stormlands, led by Orys Baratheon and aided by Queen Rhaenys atop Meraxes. Even so, Argalic gathered men for his host, ignoring the Stepstone pirates raiding Cape’s Wrath and sending men to harass the Targaryen host. Lords Errol, Fell, and Buckler did just that, catching the enemy host off-guard as they crossed the Wendwater, killing a thousand men before withdrawing to the cover of the trees. This proved deadly, as Rhaenys set the forest ablaze with Meraxes, killing hundreds of Stormlanders, including Lord Errol, to the dismay of many.  
  
Having heard the fate that befell Harren, Argalic chose to fight in the field, leading his host from Storm's End. Orys, having been alerted to the approaching host’s presence, chose to fortify his position and wait for the enemy to attack him. Argalic chose to oblige the enemy, and attacked the Targaryen host head-on.  
  
And so came the Last Storm.  
  
The fight was the fiercest the Stormlanders had seen in decades, yet, as their name implied, they stormed through it all, pushing the enemy knights and men-at-arms back towards their fortifications. For a small moment, it seemed like they were winning.  
  
Many believe they would have, had Rhaenys not been present with Meraxes.  
  
The dragonfire broke the Stormlander charge, killed Argilac’s personal guard, and threw the Storm King from his saddle. Orys, after giving him a chance to yield, proceeded to duel, and kill the Storm King, and the Stormlander host broke and fled.  
  
Upon hearing of her father’s death, Argella Durrandon barred the gates of Storm’s End and proclaimed herself Storm Queen, despite no longer truly holding any lands outside Storm’s End. In the end, a siege of the castle was unnecessary, as her own soldiers captured her, stripped her naked, gagged her, and presented her to Orys upon his arrival.  
  
It is to be noted that Argella was at Orys’ mercy. The man could have done whatever he wished to her and face no repercussions in the slightest, if he wished.  
  
All Orys did was unbind her, wrap her in his cloak, and pour her a drink.  
  
Unbeknownst to him, this act of kindness saved his life.  
  


* * *

  
While Visenya brought Cracklaw Point to its knees and secured the Vale, and Orys wrapped a cloak around Argella, the rest of Westeros scrambled to prepare a response to the ever-growing reach of the Targaryen Dynasty, and nearly none more so than the two Great Kings of the West: Mern Highgarden the Ninth, King of the Reach, and Loren Lannister, King of the Rock.  
  
Beneath the walls of Goldengrove, the two Andal kings made common cause and combined their armies, creating the mightiest host ever seen in (Lower) Westeros, numbering fifty-thousand strong, including the the five-thousand one-hundred mounted Knights. With their pact sealed by a hasty marriage, the combined Reach and Westerlander host made to march north towards Aegon’s host.  
  
Alerted to the approaching host while encamped besides the Gods Eye, Aegon summoned his own host and marched to meet the two Kings, despite only having, at best, a fifth of the men the combined reach-Westerlander host boasted.  
  
Reuniting with his wives in the town of Stoney Sept, Aegon proceeded to the sight of the battlefield, coming within site of the enemy host among the grassy plains of the Blackwater Rush, perfect for the Reach-Westerlander army to roll over Aegon's infantry with mounted Knights.  
  
Which is, ultimately, what led to their doom.  
  
Indeed, the charge of the mounted Knights began to break Aegon’s host, and would have, had Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys not set fire to the surrounding fields of very dry grass.  
  
Thousands of men died that day, some to fire, some to sword, but most by suffocation.  
  
King Mern and his kin were all either mortally wounded beyond saving or killed on the battlefield, endings generations of Gardener rule, leaving a large power vacuum in the Reach. King Loren faced a more fortunate fate; managing to escape the battle farely unwounded, only to be captured shortly afterwords, and forced to capitulate to King Aegon and his Queens. For it, he was named Lord Paramount and Warden of the West, keeping his family in power still.  
  
Immediately hoping to capitalize on his victory, Aegon quickly directed his host to Highgarden, hoping to secure its surrender, a task accomplished without bloodshed when Highgarden’s steward, Harlen Tyrell, yielded the castle without a fight, which saw his family elevated to Lords Paramount, and Warden of the South.  
  
(They were not titles the Tyrells would keep for long).  
  
Having secured all the middle Kingdoms of Westeros save the Vale, Aegon prepared to make for the south, planning to secure Oldtown, followed by the Arbor, and then the Kingdom of Dorne. His host was nearly set to go when news arrived from the Riverlands.  
  
The Northmen were coming.  
  


* * *

  
“A raven, _Àrd Rìgh_ , from the South.”  
  
Torrhen Stark had been in the process of checking a report on the Winter stocks in Winterfell when the druid had entered his solar, and had been duly aware of his presence until he heard those last words, and froze.  
  
 _...What?_  
  
Beckoning for the man to bring him the delivered parchment, the King of Winter took one look at the seal and felt the air leave his lungs.  
  
Reaching for a knife, he deftly cut the wax in two and opened the letter, scanning through it quickly, before slamming it onto his desk and standing up, face twisted in cold rage.  
  
“Druid Aeske.”  
  
The druid, who had been waiting in silence, straightened. “What do you command, _Àrd Rìgh_?”  
  
Torrhen opened his mouth, ready to give multiple conflicting orders, then stopped, and focused for a moment, before turning back to Aeske.  
  
“The banners.  
  
Call them.”  
  


* * *

  
The North’s response to Aegon Targaryen’s ‘Declaration of Seven Kingdoms’ was met, at first, with laughter. A foreign sisterfucker from the remnants of a dead empire claiming dominion over the North? Surely, what threat could he pose?  
  
And then came news of Harrenhall and the Field of Fire, and the laughter was silenced.  
  
The following arguments went well on into several days and nights, Lords and Ladies and Chieftains arguing over what course of action to take. It was only when the King stood from his spot after his silent observation of several days, that a decision was made.  
  
“My Lords, my Ladies,” Torrhen addressed the gathered Northmen, “A threat unlike any other has landed on our shores. I’ve sent word to my brother that he is to make all haste for Jotun’s Seat to supervise the Fianna’s war preparations. The Whitehares have been told to prepare to sail en-mass, and are to standby until further orders. The Fuamhaires started to drive their war-mammoths to Jotun’s Seat a fortnight ago, and the Reeds have sent word that they are watching the waterways of the Neck to ensure no army slips through unmolested.  
  
For the time being, we are safe.”  
  
A collective sigh of relief was heard around the longtable, and the King permitted it before continuing.  
  
“But we will not be safe for long. The Royces have informed me that several weeks ago, the Arryns capitulated to the forces of King Aegon Targaryen, adding the Vale to the middle Kingdoms conquered. The only ones left standing free are us and Dorne.”  
  
There was silence for a moment, the Northern Lords taking time to digest the news.  
  
The silence broke when a Lady Mormont spoke up. “What’s our course, Magnar? Command us, and we shall follow.”  
  
A round of muttered consent and nodding rippled around the table, and Chief Jormund stood up from his seat. “When my ancestors crossed the Wall at the behest of yours, we knelt to the Starks. Not some flowery sisterfucker from the Andallands! WE KNOW NO KING BUT THE MAGNAR, THE KING IN THE NORTH, THE STARK IN WINTERFELL, THE _HIGH KING_!”  
  
The declaration was met with cheers and war-whoops from the assembled Northmen, and even Torrhen gave a hidden smile, before rising.  
  
“My Lords. Prepare your men, and mount your steeds.  
  
We make for the Trident.”  
  


* * *

  
For the first time in recorded history, the Army of the Kingdom of Winter descended on the South in all its fury.  
  
Numbering close to sixty-five thousand men, including the Jotunmen mounted or otherwise, as well as the two-hundred or so Children of the Forest, it was the largest unified host that Westeros had ever seen, and all paid homage to the High King in the North. Stopping briefly at Jotun’s Seat to rest and gather more supplies and men, Torrhen Stark sent a raven to Runestone, to be acted upon if victory was assured. Then the Northern Army departed, navigating the Neck with ease, assembling and destroying causeways when needed, thanks to the engineering genius of the Jotunmen.  
  
Finally emerging from the Neck, the Northern host easily ‘commandeered’ the use of the Twins from the Freys as both a forward foothold into the South and a crossing point before marching for the Trident with all haste. Upon approaching the Trident, the King in the North asked the Children to shroud the army in mist, to play on the superstitions and fears of the Southrons, and the Children were all-too-happy to agree.  
  
So it was that the Northern host arrive at the Trident, shrouded in mist, and from that mist, the King of Winter rode out to meet with the ‘King of All Westeros.’  
  


* * *

  
There was only one meeting between the two hosts, during which, Aegon and his advisors attempted to wheedle the number of men Torrhen had brought with him, unable to discern through the unnatural mist, but the Northmen remained tight-lipped. Aegon then offered the chance to parley again on the morrow, giving them a chance to decide their final decision; “Bend or break,” as he put it.  
  
In reality, both sides used the given time to prepare for battle. On the southern banks of the Trident, the Targaryen host slowly inched forward, ready to cross at moments notice. While on the northern banks, the Northmen backed away from the Trident and dispelled a good chunk of the mist, displaying their warriors, but not their Jotunmen or Children kin.  
  
Night came and went, and the sun rose in the East, as it was wont to do.  
  
There was no second parley.  
  


* * *

  
The Targaryen battle strategy was well and good. Let the infantry cross the Trident under cover of dragonfire and decimate the Northern archers before they in turn could decimate them, and gain ground for the infantry to push off and counter.  
  
And that is what the Targaryen host did. Aegon and his sister-wives mounted their Dragons and took to they skies, leaving command of the army to Orys who began to lead the army over the Trident. The Dragons raced passed them, ready to spit dragonfire on the opposing force.  
  
And then the mist fully parted.  
  


* * *

  
In truth, many Northern lords wished to withdraw to the Neck and Jotun’s Seat for a more defensive battle.  
  
Torrhen would have none of that.  
  
“This, my Lords, is why the Fianna were made. They are the Watchers of the Sky, our Sword southwards. We must face the Valyrians in battle here, where any damage that occurs will not be done in our lands. I will not see the Neck burned by dragonfire.”  
  
There were many sullen faces, but many more nods.  
  
They all knew what was at stake.  
  


* * *

  
The Stark battle plan was sound.  
  
It was obvious to every seasoned battle commander that the Targaryen host would attempt a crossing, leaving them vulnerable to arrow-rain. Henceforth, the host would be shadowed by Dragons seeking to destroy the archer columns.  
  
Under normal circumstances, there would be no answer to this.

These were not normal circumstances.  
  


* * *

  
“Here they come, brother.”  
  
Torrhen heeded his bastard brother’s warning and looked to the sky, and indeed, the Dragons were descending, maws opened and beginning to glow. Turning to Brandon, he nodded, then turned to the closet Child of the Forest. “Dispel the mist! Northmen, at the ready!”  
  
At the same time, Brandon yelled. “NOCK!”  
  
As the mist fell away from the Northern host, the Jotunmen of the Fianna stepped forward, aim now unobstructed, and nocked their Weirwood arrows.  
  
“DRAW!”  
  
As one, the Jotunmen aimed their bows upwards, towards the approaching Dragons.  
  
They each had one shot.  
  
Old Gods be good, there were three-hundred of them.  
  
“ _LOOSE_!”  
  
The Fianna let the arrows fly.  
  


* * *

  
Under normal circumstances, Dragons, no matter how large, would be impossible to hit accurately with a scorpion, thus annulling almost all threat the siege-weapon proposed.  
  
Unfortunately for the Targaryens, the Northmen didn’t use scorpions.  
  
It’s said the arrows fired by the Fianna, each the size of a man, blacked out the rising sun for several moment colliding with their targets.  
  
Having caught sight of the Fianna several moments before the loosed their arrows, Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys attempted to dodge the oncoming volley, driving the Dragons closer to the ground in the process.  
  
Saving their lives in the process.  
  
A good score of arrows missed as the Targaryens dove, falling into the Trident or onto any unfortunate Southron who happened to be in its path.  
  
A great many more did not.  
  
Balerion was the first to go down, as the larger target, in mere moments become naught but a pincushion of man-sized arrows. Despite this, Balerion lived on for several more moments after crashing, a testament to its moniker ‘The Dread.’  
  
The Dragon Vhagar met a similar fate, several arrows ripping through its wings before several more slammed into its chest, killing it as it fell.  
  
In the irony of all ironies (though no one can tell you _why_ ), Meraxes only took a single arrow through the eye before plummeting to earth, dead.  
  


* * *

  
The army slowed when the mist seemingly dispelled from the northern banks of the Trident and the Targaryen host finally saw, for the first time, Giants of myth and legends.  
  
The army froze when the sun was suddenly blotted out by what seemed to be a thousand arrows the size of men.  
  
And Orys could only watch in horror the Dragons of his siblings fell, on by one.  
  
Following the final crash of the Dragons into the earth, the Northern host surged forward with barbaric chants and war-cries, racing for the fallen Dragons, and for a moment, Orys wondered why.  
  
Then he saw movement, amongst the corpse of the dragons, all three of them.  
  
 _They live. My siblings live._  
  
If that was so, then there was still something to salvage from this.  
  
Unsheathing his sword, he turned back to the host under his command. “Prepare to march, double-time! Your monarchs are still alive!”  
  
That seemed to spur the Dragonstone contingent of the army onward, as well as the contingents belonging to the Houses that had joined Aegon in the beginning.  
  
The rest of the army faltered.  
  
And then, a man from the Stormlander contingent of the Targaryen host, may he forever be damned, rushed forward and thrust his sword into the back of a Velaryon.  
  
“ _FOR ARGELLA_!”  
  
With that single action, the Targaryen host broke under its own weight.  
  


* * *

  
Aegon grunted in pain as he crawled away from Balerion’s corpse.  
  
He was surprised he survived the plummet to earth, but seeing as one of his legs were broken and he suspected the same with his ribs, he supposed Balerion shielded him in his last moments.  
  
Even thinking of his now dead Dragon sent a pang of misery through the Targaryen’s chest. He had been able to sense the Dragon subconsciously since its birth, but now?  
  
Nothing.  
  
Spying the fallen Vhagar, Aegon’s stomach sank. _No, no! Visenya! Rhaenys!_  
  
Making to crawl for the corpse, he almost missed the the thundering of hooves and the stomping of feet until the Northern Army had reached Balerion’s corpse, and his attempts to check on his sisters proved futile when a horse rode up to him, and a man dismounted, and flipped him on his back.  
  
Aegon glared into his assaulter's eyes, and Brandon Snow smirked back.  
  
“Pleasant day for a ride, isn’t it, Aegon Targaryen?”  
  
To Aegon’s immense protests, the bastard Northerner lifted the Targaryen onto his steed, despite his grunts of pain. Gritting his teeth, Aegon made to speak. “W-why… how…”  
  
Brandon, back in the saddle, turned to face him. “Don’t worry about your sisters, sisterfucker. They’ll be coming with us as well.”  
  
With that said and done, Brandon turned his steed and rode back to the Northern lines, and Aegon had enough time to look over the Trident and see his army fall to pieces.  
  
It was only then that Aegon the Would-Be Conqueror felt himself slump, broken and defeated.  
  
 _We… we’ve lost._  
  
And, with that harrowing thought, Aegon realized his conquest had come to an end.  
  


* * *

  


The Fall of Dragons and the Battle of the South Banks that immediately followed marked the absolute end of Aegon's Would-Be Conquest, strangling the Targaryen Dynasty in its crib. With the loss of both the Monarchs and their Dragons, many segments of the unified Targaryen host immediately rebelled, putting almost every unfortunate Targaryen loyalist to the sword (with the exception of Orys Baratheon, who was captured and whisked away by the Stormlander contingent) before nearly turning on each other. Only the quick thinking of several commanders from different regions managed to calm the infighting and direct the destruction of the Targaryen Loyalist contingent, preventing any region from using the chaotic opportunity to settle old grievances.  
  
While the Southern army crumbled, the Northmen were quick in securing both the Targaryen monarchs (all three of which having miraculously survived their falls) and the corpses of their Dragons before withdrawing from the the field and making camp to await the approaching victor form the south banks of the Trident, in the meantime tending to the Targaryen's wounds and discussing what exactly to do with them.  
  
The general consensus was to take them, and the Dragon corpses, march home, and execute them, and close the gates of Jotun's Seat once again, and the King of Winter was tempted to agree, when a delegation from the victorious party crossed the Trident and requested an audience with 'Torrhen the Defier'...


	6. After Dragon's Fall: The Council of Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath, and the beginning of the Year I ADF.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm glad so many of you have taken a liking to this! But, also, don't bother giving me suggestions, I've already written and posted several more chapters on another site, so... yeah.

_**“Andals, Rhoynar, First Men, lend me your ears!”** Prince Nymor Martell to the Council of Kings, in the Year I ADF_  
  
The following five months were the most confusing in Westerosi history.  
  
With the abrupt defeat and capture of the Targaryen monarchs, and with the news of said defeat spreading further and further out into the land every day, the garrisons loyal to the rulers of Draonstone were quickly set upon by nearly all the conquered Kingdoms, save the Riverlands, and even the Dragonmen there quickly fled as news of the Fall of Dragons and the Battle of the South Banks made itself known. Those men lucky enough to escape the enemies from all sides found themselves making for the Dragonlands, the first pieces of Westeros to be conquered by Aegon and his sister-wives, and where the last, truly loyal Houses to Dragonstone resided, along with the Aegonfort.  
  
That respite would not last long for them.  
  
Even as the last Targaryen loyalists fled territory once again held by enemies, the King of Winter, Torrhen ‘the Defiant’ Stark, courted ambassadors from the victorious coalition from the South Banks. Despite disdaining it’s use, many Northern nobles understood the Andal language, making communication vastly easier between the multiple parties.  
  
In the end, Torrhen, having no wish for further fighting, decreed that the Andal armies, at least, those who had remained in the aftermath of the Battle of the South Banks, would be allowed to return to their homes unmolested by his men, just as the Northmen prepared to return home themselves.  
  
Then the ravens arrived to the Andals, and the ambassadors relayed what they had been sent.  
  
Orys Baratheon had been marched back to the Stormlands, and was now under the… care(? the reports were conflicting) of the now-Queen Argella Durrandon, who had quickly regained control of her lands following the Stormlander army’s return. The same could be said for the Lannisters of the Rock, who quickly and quietly reclaimed their crown with little to no issue from their subjects. The Vale as well; Sharra Arryn having reclaimed the Falcon Crown and styling herself Queen of Mountain and Vale, to the irked, albeit acquiescing looks of many.  
  
The same could not be said for the Reach, however, as it was quickly becoming clear to all the major powers in the region that the Hightowers and many other Houses would not stand for Tyrell sovereignty, and sides were beginning to coalesce together.  
  
The Riverlands, by contrast, was peaceful, somehow. For the moment, it seemed as if the Riverlords were content to remain under the leadership of Edmyn Tully, although cracks would start to show by the near-end of the year.  
  
  
Torrhen would have cared little for the going-ons in the Andal Kingdoms (save the Vale, that situation interested him very much), and most likely would have continued prepping to march home, had the raven from Dorne not arrived.  
  
Strangely enough, the Principality of Dorne, despite having seen no fighting in the slightest, had decided to inject itself into the affairs of the rest of the continent. To the surprise of many (all), Prince Nymor of House Martell had suggested a leadership summit in response to Aegon’s invasion of the mainland, siting several reasons for doing so, chief among them this;  
  
“Even we in Dorne watched with mounting horror as the remnant of Valyria sought to make itself known once more, and such a thing must never be allowed to take place again, for it would bring only slavery and Doom. Lets us meet, and converse, to ensure we never face the like of another Aegon Targaryen until the end of time.”  
  
Later in life, when Prince Nymor wrote down the details of his life, it is to be noted that he, in truth, did not expect any of the Great Lords of Monarchs to accept his proposition.  
  
So it was to the immense (immense) surprise of the Martell royal that Queen Argella sent word that she agreed with his words, and requested knowledge of the location and date of such a council. Soon after, King Loren sent word that he too had no qualms against such a meeting, followed by The Defier himself, albeit begrudgingly, disliking the idea of staying south of the Neck longer than need be, having remained encamped by the Trident for three-and-a-half moons already.  
  
In the end, most of the Great Lords and Monarchs of Westeros (surpsingly) had little problems with meeting up and discussing the confounded situation that was Westeros in the Year I After Dragon’s Fall.  
  
Having successfully gathered the support needed for the gathering, Nymor began searching for a place large enough to host such an event. His search would be short, however, when Edmyn Tully sent word that the burnt husk of Harrenhal could be used, having no Lord and being large enough to host the proposed meeting.  
  
So it was, in the fifth month of the Year I ADF, the most powerful men and women on the continent made their way from all over Westeros to the ruins of Harrenhal.  
  
Thus, the Council of Kings was born.  
  


\---

  
Nymor Martell was starting to have regrets about calling this gathering.  
  
Never before had the Dornish Prince been witness to a more subdued, awkward, yet charged environment, although he supposed he should have expected that, seeing had most (all) of the monarchs had, at some point, fought each other.  
  
 _Mother was right. We Dornish should keep to ourselves._  
  
He sighed; what was done was done, and he was already here, presiding over what many had started calling The Thing due to Dorne having no stake in the Two Year Targaryen Occupation, although that was most likely due to the fact that Aegon never had the time to focus his strength southwards, _Thank the Mother Rhoyne_.  
  
Standing up from his erected seat in the middle podium, Nymor waited for the buzz of conversation to slowly die down to an acceptable level, before clearing his throat and beginning what would be his greatest crowning achievement of his life.  
  
“Andals, Rhoynar, First Men, lend me your ears!”  
  
With that sentence, the buzz silenced, and all conversations stopped in full, and all the occupants of Harren’s Great Hall turned their eyes to him. Seemingly undeterred, (a lie, he was _very much_ deterred) he continued. “Before we begin, I wish for you to look around! Gaze upon your friend, your foe, the stranger you neighbor! Look and see a united continent against a foreign foe!” He ended that with a discreet nod to King Torrhen, because unlike the Andal Lords, the Rhoynar had little problem admitting they remained standing solely due to the North’s Jotunmen archers.  
  
Having waited several moments for his fellow monarchs and Lords to do as he asked, he started again. “And now, I would take the time to thank you all for your swift response to the proposal of mine. I am Prince Nymor of the House Martell, heir to the Principality of Dorne, and I am honored to host you here in Harrenhal, despite its… recent restructuring.”  
  
The Riverlords chuckled at that, as well as several other delegates from the other regions. “Now, mayhaps we should herald ourselves, to know whom we dine with?”  
  
Lorren Lannister was the first to stand, his herald stepping forward to announce him.  
  
“Lo! Before you is Lorren, of House Lannister! King of the Rock, Lord of Lannisport, and Ruler of the Westerlands! Long may he reign!”  
  
The Westerlanders gave a cheer at that. And Lorren bowed his head slightly, then sat, and the next to stand was Argella Durrandon.  
  
“Come hither! For here stands Argella, of House Durrandon! Conqueror of Storms, Lady of Storm’s End, Tamer of Half-Dragons, and Queen of the Stormlands!”  
  
At this, the Stormlanders gave a cheer to match the Lannisters, and Nymor raised an eyebrow slightly.  
  
 _Tamer of Half-Dragons? I suppose I know the fate of Orys Baratheon, now._  
  
Argella nodded, and retook her seat as the last King, Torrhen Stark, stood from his, and his herald, a Northman with obvious Giantblood, proclaimed him.  
  
“Hark! Hail to Torrhen, of Clan Stark! The Defier, The Magnar, the Stark in Winterfell, the High King!”  
  
The assembled Northmen let loose barbaric cries in their Northern tongue, while Torrhen simply nodded and sat. Not too far behind him, however, was Sharra Arryn and her herald.  
  
“Behold! Sharra, of House Arryn! Monarch Mother, Queen of Mountain and Vale, Lady of the Eyrie, and Regent of the Vale!”  
  
The Valemen gave a much more muted cheer than their counterparts, something that did not surprise Nymor, considering the rumors of discontent emanating from the Vale.  
  
With that herald, Queen Sharra sat down again, and the rest of the Great Lords of Westeros introduced themselves, although no other Lord claimed Kingship of their own region, thankfully. Nymor was quite certain that if one of the Reachmen did such a thing he’d be presiding over a miniature battle in-of-itself.  
  
“Thank you, my Lords, my Ladies.  
  
Now, we can begin.”  
  
And so the Lords and Ladies of Westeros conversed.  
  


\---

In essence, the Council of Kings boiled down to two major points; the threat of foreign invasion, and what was to be done of it, and the fates of the defeated Targaryen monarchs.  
  
Despite his doubts, as well as the doubts of many others present, the outcome of the Council of Kings was more favorable than Prince Nymor had expected, in truth, for all the Great Lords and Monarchs of Westeros, Andal, Rhoynar, and First Man alike, agreed that, in the face of foreign invasion, all feuds would be put to rest, all infighting stopped, and all of Westeros would band together to throw the invaders out to sea.  
  
And there were only half a dozen murders, and all of them between the near-feuding Reachmen.  
  
All in all, a job well done.  
  
So it was, on the eighth day after the gathering, the Council dispersed, to be reconvened in five-to-ten years, and the Lords went their separate ways.  
  
Queen Argella returned to the Stormlands, keeping her army on high alert as well as getting to know her new husband.  
  
King Lorren returned to the Rock, to keep his eyes on the rapidly deteriorating peace in the Reach.  
  
Queen Sharra returned to the Eyrie (or, at least, _attempted_ to), seemingly content to remain idle in her mountain fortress.  
  
King Torrhen, after several months spent in the Andallands, returned home with all haste, to the familiar comforts of ice and snow.  
  
Prince Nymor himself returned to Dorne, content with the peace he had achieved. All the while, the other Great Lords of Westeros dispersed, all heading to their homes and hearths.  
  
And, for another four months, there was peace.  
  
Then, from the lofty towers of Highgarden, Harlen Tyrell, despite only having the support of the Dragonmen and barely half the region, proclaimed himself King of the Reach.  
  
The Hightowers took exception to that.  
  
The Council of Kings had ended.  
  
And the Century of Seven Kings began.  
  


\---

  
“You called, Torrhen?”  
  
“Aye, I did. Sit, Brandon.”  
  
“I assume this isn’t to do with the Targaryens, yes?”  
  
“You’d be correct.” Shuffling a pile of parchment into a drawer, Torrhen brought out a map, and spread it across his desk. “The time of the Targaryens is over, and the Andallands are weak. The time to seek vengeance is now.”  
  
Brandon’s mind raced furiously, and quickly connected the dots, and the Northman grinned. “So, it’s finally time.”  
  
Torrhen returned the grin, eyes roving across the map.  
  
“Aye, it’s time. The Royces sent word before they left for the Council of Kings. They are ready.  
  
It is time for the reconquest of the Vale.”


	7. Omakes I, II, III, IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cluster of Omakes leading into the next chapter.

**I**

"And what is to be done of the Targaryens?"  
  
The question, presented by Lorren Lannister, quelled the sounds of conversation in the room, and all turned their heads towards the Northern delegation, where the King of Winter sat, and Torrhen Stark sighed, setting aside his horn of mead.  
  
"I too am interested in the fate of the Dragons," Argella Durrandon added from her corner. When several curious looks were sent her way, the Storm Queen shrugged. "My new husband begged me to grant him closure in the matter before I made my way here, and tis the least I can do. I owe him that little, at least."  
  
Torrhen nodded his understanding at that, taking one last swig of his horn before speaking. "Prior to making my way to this Council, I made conversation with my captives, as they are mine by rite of war. In exchange for the lives of his sisters, Aegon Targaryen agreed to concede to us Dragonstone and all its assets. By now, the Whitehaires should have arrived, or are near arrival to the island."  
  
There were mumbles and raised brows at that. The Kingdom of Winter, with such a foothold that far South? Seeing as the Vale's fleet had been destroyed or captured, and the Targaryen one having fled to the Dragonlands or back to Essos, the North would be the dominant power on the East Coast.  
  
Sensing the troubled mood, Torrhen waved his arms concedingly. "I have no wish to keep Dragonstone, you have no fear. I merely wish to take what is there, so that the Valyrians can never raise steel against us again. Should any of you wish to claim the island, you will have no contest from us."  
  
The mumbles faded, and so did the worried looks between the Andal lords, and Torrhen thought the matter over.  
  
Then, Edmyn Tully spoke up, glaring at him all-the-while (was it his fault that he deiceded to ally with foreign invasions? Torrhen thought not).  
  
"You said you exchanged Dragonstone's assets for the lives of his sisters," his eyes narrowed. "So what of the K-- Aegon himself?"  
  
Torrhen raised an eyebrow.  
  
"What of him? He'll be dead."

* * *

* * *

**II**

"My husband will be devastated to learn the fate of his brother, methinks."  
  
Torrhen turned away from the battlements and raised his brow at the approaching Storm Queen. "Devastated, mayhaps, but surely he knew there was no chance of Aegon's survival, aye?"  
  
Stopping besides him and staring out beyond Harrenhal's battlements, down into the camps of the various Kingdoms of Westeros, Argella shrugged. "He was aware, of that I made sure of. My husband he may be, but I've not forgiven him in full for killing my father."  
  
"Then why does he live?" Torrhen was genuinely confused as to why Argella married the captured Orys Baratheon. "Orys is the one who took your castle, is he not? And he is disgraced, with no lands or titles or armies to his name. What possessed you to marry him?"  
  
Instead of answering, the Storm Queen merely grinned. "I do not forget acts of kindness, and Orys acted in a way I've yet to see replicated. In truth, he is a fine husband." A faint smile ghosted her lips. "Besides, you heathen Northmen have your secrets, and I have mine. Assuming all goes well, you will learn of my designs soon enough."  
  
Torrhen stared at her for a moment before nodding slowly, and turning his attention to the camps north of Harrenhal. "Then, the best of luck to you, so long as you do not interfere with my people."  
  
At that, Argella scoffed, and rolled her eyes. "I hardly give a rat's tail about what the Septons say about you barbaric heathens and your strange gods, and I have no wish to call for another doomed crusade."  
  
"Oh, so you Andals _do_ learn occasionally."  
  
Argella let out a surprised chuckle at the jape, turning her gaze towards the King of Winter. "It took us Stormlanders a while to figure it out, but we learned. In any regard," her smile fell, a neutral expression overtaking it. "The Stormlands have no quarrel with the North, at least for the time being."  
  
Turning towards her again, Torrhen studied the Storm Queen for a moment, before nodding back in understanding. "And the North has no quarrel with the Stormlands." He offered his hand, and Argella took it, and they shook.

* * *

* * *

**III**

_Never should have come here._  
  
Those were the thoughts of one Orys Durrandon _née_ Baratheon as the ship he was sailing on rowed into Dragonstone's bay, escorted by two Northern war galleys.  
  
 _Although_ , he mused cynically, _I suppose this is my fault_. In truth, it had been his idea to sail for his former island home to secure the library of Valyrian knowledge for the Stormlands, an idea that Argella herself had been happy to allow.  
  
His relationship with the Storm Queen was... odd, when spoken at its plainest.  
  
He supposed he could trace the confusion back to the last he'd seen Argella, before he had marched his army north from Storm's End to support is Monarch siblings.  
  
She had come to him before they had departed, and glared at him with a deep, _deep_ loathing, all the while tying a sewn favor around his right gauntlet. A favor she had made of her own volition.  
  
Then she had turned and left.  
  
( _Gods_ , women were confusing. You would think growing up besides two trueborn sisters would help him understand the other sex better, but _nooo_.  
  
Maybe because Aegon hogged most of their time, but, well.)  
  
Of course, that favor may as well have been a curse upon him, for his siblings and their dragons had been felled from the sky, the army behind him almost immediately fractured, and not ten minutes into the melee he was before Orys had been apprehended by the Stormlander contingent of the formerly-Targaryen host.  
  
Immediately after the Battle of the South Banks, and when the southrons were assured that they wouldn't be assaulted with giant arrows to the back, the Stormlanders packed up camp and began the march home, with him in tow. Upon reaching the borders of the Stormlands, he was bound, gagged, and stripped naked, before being paraded on foot all the way back to Storm's End.  
  
It was there, in that massive castle, amidst the hero's welcome the Stormlander army had received, that Orys was thrown to his knees before Argella, once again the Storm Queen. It had been raining, that day, and the general remembered duly noting that she looked radiant in it.  
  
Of course, that thought was second to his main one;  
  
He was going to die.  
  
Or, at least, that is what Orys thought when Argella unsheathed a small dagger from her belt, and he simply shrugged in resignation. And so, he waited for the blade to come down.  
  
And it did.  
  
Argella cut his binds, ungagged him, and unclasped her cloak before wrapping it around his shoulders.  
  
Then she once more brought the blade to its scabbard and sheathed it.  
  
She had turned, then, and began striding towards the Great Keep. She had taken several steps before halting and turning back to face him, an inquisitive arch to her brow.  
  
"Are you not coming? I don't suppose you find the ground comforting to your knees, do you?"  
  
It had been an... interesting way to reunite with his wife again.  
  
The next several months passed with Orys spending most of his time either in his ‘chambers,’ which were in truth a glorified, well furnished cell, and with Argella herself. She visited him surprisingly often, though Orys found no objection. Sometimes they spoke of the affairs of the Stormlands, another surprise to him. Other times she would simply have servants bring in a meal, and they would eat in comfortable(?) silence.  
  
Then came the day he was finally allowed to leave Storm’s End, he had been escorted to the Storm Queen’s chambers, where he discovered, to his shock, that she had in fact not annulled their marriage, and he was now technically Orys Durrandon, Prince-Consort to the Storm Queen.  
  
A traitorously large part of him found he quite liked the way that sounded.  
  
Evidently, Argella liked the way it sounded well enough as well, due to the fact that as soon as she dismissed her servants and attendants from the room, she bolted the door and removed her clothing.  
  
“To make the wedding official. You did not take your marital rights before you left for the Trident,” she had said.  
  
Orys was no fool. He knew the Storm Queen desired him for much more than simply his loins, else he would most likely be short a head.  
  
But, he was not one to look a gift-dragon in the jaws.  
That had been a night to remember.  
  
And then, a week before Argella had departed for the Council of Kings, Orys had brought up his idea, and the Storm Queen held no opposition towards him.  
  
So, two days after his Queen and wife had had ridden for Harrenhal, Orys found himself escorted to Dragonstone via the _Stormrider_ , accompanied by Stormlanders loyal to Argella. He hadn’t minded that, in truth, for while no doubt some of them had been sent to keep a watchful eye on him, the rest where apparently sent for his own protection.  
  
The ship had only halfway been to Dragonstone when Orys realized he loved his wife.  
  
But, the gods bore no love towards him, so of _course_ that was when the North-Eastern fleet of the Whitehaires made themselves known.  
  
The Northern galleys boasted larger sails and many more oars than Orys’ own ship, so fleeing was no option. He ordered the captain to maintain their heading, in the hopes that the Northmen would not immediately rain arrows upon them, and reluctantly, the Stormlander ship continued.  
  
There was a collective sigh of relief from all aboard the _Stormrider_ when a loud Northman yelled at them in the Common Tongue that they would be escorting Orys and his men to Dragonstone, “by order of Brandon Snow, Lord of Dragonstone.”  
  
Admittedly, that irked Orys more than it should have. Dragonstone, his home, the seat which he would never hold due to his status as a bastard, given to a bastard. A _Northern_ bastard, at that!  
  
But, there was nothing he could do but grit his teeth in silence as the three galleys cut a swath through the waves towards the (formerly)Targaryen island seat.  
  
And then, finally, finally, the _Stormrider_ pulled into the docks. The ship gently came to a stop as the sailors retracted the oars, and the gangplank lowered.  
  
After nearly three years, Orys had come home.  
  


* * *

  
As soon as he stepped foot on the island, his men were confined to the _Stormrider_ while Orys himself was brought up into Dragonstone proper. Upon entering the keep he had called home, he bit back a scowl. Tapestries and shelves had been overturned, shards of pottery and parchment strewn about haphazardly.  
  
 _They’re tearing Dragonstone apart. Nay, they’re **sacking** it._  
  
“Ah, l _eannán-deirfiúr_ , welcome! The hospitality of Dragonstone is yours.”  
  
Orys’ glare shifted from the floor to the man on the dragonglass throne, who merely smirked at it. “I would offer you bread and salt, but obviously you and yours hold no regards to the laws of the gods.”  
  
The bastard inhaled sharply before exhaling, biting down a retort that would surely get him killed. “What business do you have here? This keep belongs to Aegon Targaryen.” King of All Westeros, he wanted to add, but did not. His wife would take offense to that, and he had no wish to ruin what relationship they had managed to forge.  
  
Brandon raised an eyebrow at that. “I would beg to differ. Dragonstone now belongs to the North. Therefore, all things in and on Dragonstone belong to the North. I’ve simply come to collect.”  
  
Ignoring the sudden halting of footsteps from behind him, Orys interjected. “‘Belongs to the North?’ What madness do you speak, barbarian?”  
  
The Northman grinned, and gestured behind Orys.  
  
“Ask you sister,” he said, just as someone murmured “Orys?” from behind him.  
  
And, indeed, Orys whirled around to find Visenya staring at him in shock.  
  


* * *

  
His sister took him to a side room for more privacy, and to his surprise, the Northerners let her. It was only when she closed the door that she let herself sag, and they flung their arms around each other.  
  
“Gods, I’d thought not to see you again,” she murmured, and Orys gave a sad chuckle. “You and me both, Visenya.”  
  
They stayed that way for several more moments before pulling apart. Visenya drew up two chairs, and the two dragonbloods seated themselves. Orys reluctantly broke the silence first. “Is it true, what the Northman said? Dragonstone no longer belongs to the Targaryens?”  
  
Visenya flinched, but nodded, eyes downcast. “Aegon was forced to capitulate it after our capture. He had little choice. As soon as he had written the declaration, Torrhen Stark sent ravens to our vassals and loyal Houses, before sending Aegon, Rhaenys, and I into the Winter hinterlands.”  
  
“And that bit about you being his wife?”  
  
“Another part of brother’s capitulation,” the Targaryen growled. “He was forced to give our hands in marriage for our lives.” Her eyes, which had been filled with rage, dimmed. “Except for Aegon’s himself. He is to die.”  
  
Orys lowered his head in sadness and shame. Could all of this, the failure of the Dynasty, the collapse of Aegon’s kingdom, have been avoided if he had just kept order in the ranks?  
  
“Gods,” he sighed, “it’s all gone to _qrugh_ , hasn’t it? To think, a year ago, we were rulers of the near-damned continent!”  
  
They sat in silence for a while longer, before Visenya snapped and flung her chair into the wall. Having done that, she shut her eyes and gritted her teeth.  
  
“We never should have left.”  
  
Orys couldn’t help but agree.  
  


* * *

  
The two dragonbloods spent the night together (in separate beds, Visenya did not love him in that way and Orys was a married man) before being roughly awoken from slumber by several Northmen. Visenya was dragged off to help direct the barbarians to any (and all) valuables remaining, something which she did reluctantly, but truly. Orys understood, of course.  
  
It’s not like she had a choice.  
  
Neither did he, for that matter. He was to remain on Dragonstone until the Northmen departed from it, and despite it all, a part of him wished that they did not, if only that he might be able to speak with at least one of his siblings.  
  
Unfortunately, that was not to be, as Brandon Snow delighted in informing him. “Did you enjoy the night with your sister?”  
  
They were once again in the throne room, though this time the Northman did not sit upon the dragonglass, but stood before Orys, whose eyes flashed with constrained fury. “We did not lay with one another, no.”  
  
The First Man’s brow raised in mock-surprise. “Truly? Well, I suppose one learns new things occasionally. We’re leaving on the morrow.” The sudden change in conversation caught Orys off guard for a moment, before the words caught up to him and his shoulders sagged. “And Visenya is to go with you.”  
  
“Yes,” Brandon confirmed, and the Durrandon cursed him in his mind, but remained silent for a moment more.  
  
The Northman’s next words surprised him, however. “We’ve found everything we want or need from this wretched island, so I have no need to keep your sister close. Spend the rest of the day with her, for once we depart you will never see her again.”  
  
Orys barely registered his response, all but stumbling away from the man, and made to find his sister. Eventually, he did, and they spent the rest of their time together regaling one another with stories and tales from their childhood. They spoke well into the night.  
  
It was bittersweet.  
  
The next day, the two dragonbloods bid each other farewell, no sign of weakness in any of them. Only when the last Northern galley, the one carrying Visenya, sailed out of sight, did Orys let a choked sob escape his lips.  
  


* * *

  
As soon as he could, his ship was rowed out of the bay and sailed back to Storm’s End. Argella, to his numbed surprise, was not disappointed or angered in the failure of his task, but… sad(?) for him. In any rate, she did not complain when Orys broke down later that night in their shared chambers, going so far as to embrace him while he wept.  
  
Orys fell asleep to the sound of Argella’s soothing voice.  
  


* * *

  
Brandon Snow was right.  
  
He never saw Visenya again.

* * *

* * *

**IV**

“...I suppose that is everything, then? Are there any other matters anyone wishes to bring before the Council?”  
  
At Prince Martells words, several pairs of eyes shot towards the group of Reachmen, split between the Tyrell/Targaryen faction and the Hightower faction. And though the two groups shot each other murderous glares, they did not speak out, and Nymor let out a hidden sigh of relief. “Then I see no reason to keep you all from your homes and hearths.” From his place on the dais, he stood up, quickly followed by the other Monarchs and Great Lords.  
  
“My Lords, my Ladies, fellow monarchs of Westeros,” Nymor bowed his head. “I hereby adjourn the Council of Kings. Let it be known that you all have my thanks in joining me here.”  
  
His declaration was met with several _‘here here!’_ s and nods of acknowledgement from the other delegates, and with that, the first Council of Kings came to a close. The lords and ladies filed out of the room, some seeking out others to converse with them before returning home, whilst others simply made all haste to their camp, desperately wishing for home.  
  
Nymor was in the latter group.  
  
Slipping away from the other monarchs and into a empty corridor, Nymor let his shoulders sag. “Should the Mother Rhoyne will it,” he muttered, “I am _never_ doing that again.” _Gods_ , just organizing the _seating plans_ had been a headache in his attempt to placate any possible insult, and _then_ he had to deal with the Reachmen ( _gods-damned Tyrells_ ) and make sure the inevitable civil war didn’t spark out amongst the council meetings which would most likely result in every kingdom declaring war on each other within a fortnight--  
  
Nymor inhaled, exhaled, closed his eyes for a moment, then stood up straight.  
  
“ _By the Mother Rhoyne,_ I need a glass of Red. And a fast ship back to Dorne.”  
  
The Prince Martell left to find those things.  
  


* * *

  
“I suppose this is farewell then, Torrhen.”  
  
Both the Storm Queen and the Stark King stood before each other besides their mounts, looking towards their camps that were slowly being packed away. “A shame, really. I quite enjoyed your dislike of Andal politics,” Torrhen lamented, and Argella grinned. “If only half the people in the Stormlands thought like you barbarians, I’d be a happy woman.”  
  
The two monarchs, in the eight days they had attended the Council of Kings, had grown to enjoy each other’s company (not in _that_ way; Torrhen still loved his wife, dead or no, and Argella’s feelings towards her husband were growing into something more than convenience) and had taken to talking with each other whenever time permitted. However, both were eager to return to their homes, so they spoke knowing they would most likely not see each other for another decade.  
  
The two lapsed into a momentary silence, in which Torrhen shifted his gaze from his camp to the Vale one, specifically to the runic banner of House Royce. He didn’t see the Lord Royce himself, but that was probably for the best; he wanted no hint of their plans leaking to the Andals.  
  
The silence permeated for a moment longer, before Argella dipped her head slightly towards Torrhen and mounted. “Well, King Stark, I have a half-dragon husband to return to, so I must bid you farewell. May we meet under better circumstances.”  
  
Torrhen chuckled, mounting his own unicorn (horses had been phased out of mass use some time after the integration of the Skagosi) and nodded back. “You tempt the gods, Argella, but I too wish that. Fare thee well, Storm Queen.”  
  
With that, the two monarchs (and maybe-friends) turned their steeds and departed for their own camps.  
  
Upon arriving to his, Torrhen was greeted with one of his Children kin, Leaf, who simply phased out of the nearby shadow of a tree upon the King of Winter’s approach, and hopped onto the back of Torrhen's steed. “I bring back word from the Isle.”  
  
That gained the King’s attention immediately. One of the the first things he had done upon arriving to Harrenhal was send several Children and Greenmen to discover what exactly happened to their isolated kin on the Isle of Faces after the Doom.  
  
“And?”  
  
“Our kin there had either died in the Doom or were rendered comatose. It took several small blood offerings for them to awaken. Although some of the locals did mention the Isle disappearing for some time... Nothing permanent, thank the gods,” Leaf sighed in relief, and Torrhen did the same. “Thank the gods indeed. Now, let us depart from this place. We’ve been south far too long, don’t you think?”  
  
Two hours later, the Northmen were marching home, marching to a hymn in the Old Tongue.  
  


* * *

  
Yorwyk Royce felt himself tense in mild anticipation when the mountains of the Vale crested the horizon after nearly a fortnight and a half of marching.  
  
Like many, if not all of the other lords, of the Vale or otherwise, the Lord of Runestone wished to be surrounded by the comforts of his own keep, if not for the fact that he had not slept in his own home for several weeks, for the fact that he had sent a very important raven northbound before departing from Runestone, and he needed to be home to receive the answer it would return with.  
  
As the host of eighteen-thousand made its way deeper into the Vale of Arryn, lords began to split away and head for home, something Yorwyck desperately wished he could do. Alas, he would spend as much time as he could escorting Sharra Arryn back to the Eyrie so long as it made him seem like the ideal loyal vassal.  
  
In the end, the men of Runestone stayed with the now smaller Arryn host, and eighteen-thousand men became fifteen.  
  
Thoughts drifting away from home, they turned to the remainder of the First Men of the Vale, represented by three houses (including Yorwyck’s own) and three-thousand men between them  
  
House Royce’s relations with the First Men of the Vale were strong. Few houses old enough to remember their own kingships, or that of the Griffin King or the last Bronze King, truly enjoyed living under the yoke of the Arryns, though some, namely House Shett and House Hunter, had benefited under their Andal rulers had saw no reason to rise up against them. Though, there were several other First Men families in the Vale who didn’t share that view, and all had pledged their support in joining Yorwyck in his fight against the Arryns.  
  
And then there were the Mountain Clans of the Moon.  
  
While no Andal house, or Andal-sympathetic house knew the truth, all the First Men Houses of the Vale had, at some point, sent a shipment of steel arms, armor, and food (and sponsored several raids) towards their more proud kin, House Royce among them. It had gone on for centuries since the Andal Invasion, to the point where, apparently, the clansmen started to work steel themselves, which was noticed when they started leaving the worst of the delivered steel behind.  
  
And then, two decades ago, they just stopped taking the steel at all.  
  
Which was worrying unto itself, Yorwyck would admit.  
  
What was even more concerning was that there hadn’t been any raids from the Mountains in _six years_.  
  
The Andal lords had been ecstatic, but Yorwyck and his allies had been worried. What catastrophe could have befallen them that they simply _stopped_? Could the last Winter truly have been that devastating that their mountain kin simply died off?  
  
Yorwyck didn’t know, and that troubled him.  
  
Those thoughts were promptly forgotten when, somewhere in the distance, something akin to a horn blew.  
  
 _...Was that a carnyx?_  
  
Urging his steed through the throngs of abruptly-startled mounted men, Yorwyck made his way to the head of his men, who were, in truth, somewhere near the end the procession, and met eyes with captain of his guard. “Eiric, what is the matter? Why has the host stopped moving?”  
  
Disturbingly, his captain didn’t answer him for a moment, and just before Yorwyck was about to demand an answer, Eiric gave him one.  
  
“When the time comes, make for Runestone with all haste, Bronze King. Your family has done good by us, and it would not do for you to fall today."  
  
Yorwyck nearly fell off his horse. _He-- how does he know?!_ “Is that a _threat_?! And how do you--”  
  
And then _two_ blasts from a carnyx echoed throughout the pass, this time from the rocky ridged surrounding them.  
  
The would-be Bronze King’s mind raced furiously, connecting the dots with the last thread Eiric had given him.  
  
 _Oh._  
  
Alright then.  
  
He figured it out.  
  
Not nearly soon enough, though.  
  


* * *

  
With a vengeful fury several-thousand years in the making, the Mountain Clans of the Moon descended upon the Knights of the Vale.


	8. Flight of the Griffin King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vengeance is had.

_**“DÌOGHALTAS AIIRSON AN SEACHD RIONNAG!”** -Clansmen battle cry during the Griffin's Descent_  
  
[For](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=i80iS-GjjqM) the first time since their defeat at the Battle of the Seven Stars, the First Men fell upon the Knights of the Vale.  
  
The only warning the Arryn host received was the cryptic warning given to Yorwyck Royce and the earsplitting cries of the carnyx, but the Arryn host had no time to recognize the signs of attack before they were fallen upon by the Mountain Clans of the Moon. The men closet to Queen Sharra held their calm long enough to pull her into a protective circle of horsemeat and shields, but the sides of the column quickly descended into chaos, men pushing and shouting and shoving, horses bucking and neighing.  
  
Iron-tipped arrows whistled through the air from the grassy perches bordering the ravine the Valemen found themselves penned in, finding many a target in exposed horsemeat and amongst many an unprotected face. Mountain clansmen, screaming bloody vengeance and war cries over and over in their Old Tongue scrambled down the hills on both sides towards the disarrayed Andals.  
  
And then the lines met.  
  
The Mountain Clans had chosen the battleground well; by attacking the Arryn column in the ravine, they negated their greatest asset, the cavalry. With such little space to maneuver, let alone charge, the steeds were, for all intents and purposes, nothing but a hindrance to the men of the Vale. Those smart enough to realize the fact in the moment quickly dismounted and slew their horses, whilst those unlucky or foolish enough to refuse dismounting were oft pulled from their saddles and hacked to death.  
  
While the clansmen smashed into the sides of the column, the Lords and Queen of the Vale, save several others further back in the host, met underneath a shell of shields. Surprisingly, there was little debate as to what to do; the end of the ravine opened up into a mildly-forested valley, which would give them both breathing space and allow them the use of their cavalry. One they could, it was only a matter of either swinging around and running the barbarians down, or racing to the Eyrie for reinforcements.  
  
In the end, it was decided that two-hundred men on the fastest steeds would escort the Queen Mother back to the Eyrie as soon as possible, whilst the Knights of the Vale stood their ground. With that done, the lords departed to restore order to the column and give the order to push for the valley.  
  
The order quickly passed through the host, and those with steeds remaining quickly mounted them, dumping any extra baggage in the hopes that the clansmen would halt their attack for the loot. Lord Royce quickly sent word up the column that he would hold the rear to buy time, and with that confirmation, the mounted host broke into a canter, then a sprint, racing their steeds in the only way possible; forward.  
  
Some of the men without horses, however, either because they were simply men-at-arms or because they had slain them upon the approach of the Clans, quickly broke when they saw they were effectively being abandoned by their liege lords. Some raced after the fleeing host in a desperate attempt to not be left behind, whilst others moved in the other direction to join up with the Royce-led part of the host, and yet others still stood their ground, fighting valiantly amongst against the onslaught.  
  
Among the valiant was a relatively unknown but renowned knight and second son of House Grafton by the name of Rolland.  
  
It was under his leadership that three-hundred-and-forty-one of the men left behind managed to escape the deathtrap, wading into battle at the forefront of his men, hacking down clansmen and yelling encouragement to his men. To some of the younger Valemen, it seemed as if he had been possessed by the Warrior, for he certainly fought with enough fury, but it was the older soldiers who noted that he fought with the vigor of a man who left a loved one or a lover behind.  
  
(A lover who happened to be Sharra Arryn, as it turned out.)  
  
The other Valemen, however, were not so fortunate to have the leadership of Rolland to guide them. Bravely they fought, yet, eventually, they were overwhelmed, leaving the way clear for the clansmen to pursue.  
  
Oddly enough, the clansmen did not, and for good reason.  
  
The trap had already been sprung.  
  


* * *

  
Despite being harassed by arrows and clansmen, the front part of the column that had fled the ravine managed to, at last, break out of the ravine and into the valley. By all rights, it should have been smooth sailing from there-- swing around and scale the hills of the ravine, ride down the barbarians, and get the Queen of Mountain and Vale back to her fortress.  
  
It was not to be.  
  
For waiting for them, out on the open fields of the valley before a nearby forest, behind a wall of wooden stakes and beneath dozens of old and torn banners, the First Men stood.  
  
But, that was not what gave the Knights of the Vale pause, no.  
  
It was the banner flying at the forefront of the enemy host.  
  
It was the banner of the Crowned Griffin.  
  


…

  
The Griffin King _lived_.  
  


* * *

  
As it would stand, the two forces were evenly matched. The Knights of the Vale had left behind around four-thousand men, leaving them with eleven-thousand from their initial fifteen, and the armies of the Griffin King themselves also numbered eleven-thousand, not counting the clansmen still looting corpses in the ravine. All in all, the Valemen should have had the advantage. They were on flat, open ground, perfect for a cavalry charge. The heathen First Men had no steel weaponry (to their knowledge) as well as armor. They had no apparent cavalry force, and, most importantly, the Seven-Who-Were-One did not stand with them.  
  
So, the order was given to charge.  
  
And so the Andals did.  
  
The remaining cavalry left to the Arryn host rushed towards the waiting army, before splitting into three sections. The middle would continue its charge into the center, while the flanks circled round in a pincer movement.  
  
The frontal charge was, of course, decimated. Arrows downed both horse and man, and what the archers failed to fell, the stakes and the men behind them did the rest. However, the assault from the front distracted the First Men from the cavalry flanking them, leaving them mostly un-harassed.  
  
At least, so it seemed.  
  
Until, abruptly, more arrows emerged from the nearby forest, pelting the righter-most Vale forces with volleys of iron and once again sowing disarray amongst the ranks, forcing them to abandon the pincer attack.  
  
And that is when the Griffin King made himself known  
  
With a cry of _“VENGEANCE FOR THE SEVEN STARS!!!”,_ Donnahal Redsmith, the Griffin King of the Hill, emerged from the forest on horseback, longsword drawn, accompanied by his own mounted force of cavalry. Thundering towards the disorientated Andals, the clansmen smashed, and broke, the Vale cavalry on the right side, freeing their kinsmen from focusing on two fronts.  
  
With half their remaining cavalry gone, the Knights of the Vale, swung away from the entrenched First Men and back to the Vale lines made up of the men-at-arms and knights without steeds who had made it out of the ravine.  
  
The First Men pursued.  
  
Leaving behind their wooden fortifications, the Mountain Clans charged the remaining Knights of the Vale, all the while chanting in their barbaric tongue. Soon enough, the warriors war headed by the Griffin King’s own cavalry, and they sped full tilt towards the Andal lines.  
  


…

  
The Lords of the Vale unsheathed their swords, and made their stand.  
  
And then they fell.  
  
The Vale lines buckled and broke almost immediately after making contact with the enemy, and the charge quickly descended into a melee. Both sides fought with varied degrees of emotions; the Valemen fought with a fear and desperation not seen since the Breaking of the Andals, and the Mountain Clans of the Moon fought with a burning fury stoked by thousands of years in exile.  
  
In the end, it was no contest. The Clans had the morale, had the numbers and had the will to win, whilst the Vale did not.  
  
Of the brave Valemen who made that stand, there would be few survivors.  
  
And of the few that survived, none lived long enough to enjoy it.  
  


* * *

  
The same, however, could not be said for the remainder of the Arryn host’s horse.  
  
Whilst the dismounted infantry fought it out in the valley, the cavalry of both sides had detached themselves from the melee. The mounted Valemen, along with the Queen Sharra Arryn retreated back towards the ravine with all haste, hoping to outrun any remaining enemies within and break out into the rest of the Vale Proper to rally support, all the while the Griffin King giving chase.  
  
They might have, nay, would have made it, had their gods favored them.  
  
Woe to them.  
  
At first, when they saw the banners of Runestone emerging from the ravine at the head of the remnants of the mounted column, there were cries of relief and joy that they might live the day.  
  
And then, those same banners, tied to lances, lowered, then charged.  
  


* * *

  
The final defeat of the day came not from the Mountain Clans of the Moon, nor the Griffin King, though he would be the one to capture Queen Sharra.  
  
No.  
  
While it was the Griffin King of the Hill that broke the eldest Andal bloodline, it was the Bronze King of Runestone that shattered their hope.  
  


* * *

Later, it would be discovered that the return of the Griffin and Bronze Kings of the Vale coincided with the presenting of Aegon the Would-Be Conqueror to the Great Weirwood Tree.


	9. Blood for the Old Gods, Skulls for the Oak Throne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Great _Rud _and the execution of Aegon Targaryen.__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for all ye faint of heart: there will be gore, there will be death, and there will be pagan sacrifice, for the sustenance of the Old Gods is always blood.

_**“To the Gods of the Forest we pledge this gift! A sign of our devotion, doused in blood! Hearth, harvest, and heart we offer unto you, by the laws of earth, sea, and sky! By the blood drawn by bronze and iron! By the Pact sealed by Ice and Fire!”** -Torrhen the Defiant during the ceremonies of the Great Rud_  
  
It was to be the largest gathering the North had seen in centuries.  
  
People from all corners of the High Kingdom and of all walks of life flocked to the Fenrirfiodh in preparation for the the Great _Rud_ , the greatest of its kind since the Long Night. Smallfolk, Jotunmen, Skagosi, the Children of the Forest, even several Black Brothers and their Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch on leave from the Wall flooded down the Rootroad, all heading to one singular place.  
  
Since the end of the Long Night centuries upon centuries ago, the Àite Dhè has been dedicated to the Gods of the Forest and none other. No man may fell oak nor pine within a league of that area in the Fenrirfiodh on pain of a slow and torturous death, and no man may claim the land as his own. No practicer of a foreign faith may lay eyes on the _Àite Dhè_ and retain his tongue or eyes to tell the tale (save certain exceptions). No man may commit a crime on those sacred grounds, for they were the lands of the Gods.  
  
The gods the Northmen worshiped, the Old Ones, the Gods of the Forest, the _De Højeste_ , whatever one wished to call them, they were not kind. The gods were old, and sustenance was required to sustain them.  
  
And the Gods demanded blood.  
  
While it was customary for the High King, his Lords, Magnars, and Chieftains to execute any criminals beneath their own Heart Trees within their own Godswoods, there were times when sacrifices were brought directly to the Old Gods. Times of drought, times of famine, times of death, darkness, and cold.  
  
And, in more recent history, times of victory.  
  
Not since the days of the Theon ‘The Farseer’ Stark had a _Rud_ of this magnitude been organized, and even then, that had been but a gathering of friends in a mead hall compared to the sheer number of Northmen estimated to arrive. Not since the Breaking of the Andals has the High Kingdom of the North been under true threat of annihilation from an Essosi invader, and the last time such an event occurred, the Hungry Wolf spilt enough blood on the hills of Andalos to appease the gods even from so far away.  
  
But now? Now there was no need to sail to Andalos for blood, and inferior blood at that.  
  
The last of the Valyrians had come straight to them, and the King of Winter would not let such an opportunity pass.  
  
Long had the High Kingdom known of the Valyrian Freehold, and long had they done their best to remain out of their sight. The Freehold’s dealing in slavery alone was enough for condemnation, but the Valryrian Freehold’s... _other_ practices involving those same slaves caused the North to always sleep with one eye open in that direction. The Children, or, at least, the Greenseers among them who dared to look that far East, hated the Dragonlords with a fury that at the time was rivaled only the Andals, and, since the Doom of Valyria, despised them with a passion equal to their hatred of the Ones Who Came With The Cold. Long had Valyria been a plague upon the North, albeit a relatively unknown one that not many knew of, but with the Freehold itself gone, what better way to exact vengeance upon them by destroying their last chance for a Valyrian remnant to rise again?  
  
So, that is what Torrhen prepared to do.  
  
In the time he had been away from the North attending the Council of Kings, the North had prepared vigorously for the coming _Rud_. Podiums were built around the High Heart Tree of the Fenrirfiodh, criminals (those murderers, rapists, thieves, and Ironborn who dared to tread the lands of the North) were relocated from their captivity in the dungeons of various magnars to recently renamed Torrhen’s Square to be prepared for sacrifice, and Aegon Targaryen himself, two weeks after arriving in the North, was whisked away by the Children of the Forest to be prepared as the rites dictated. By the time the High King returned to his Kingdom, the preparations were all but complete, and after spending some time to rest from his stay in the South, Torrhen the Defiant finally departed Winterfell for the Great _Rud_ , followed by a great procession of many who had taken up residence in Wintertown during the wait. It was a slow process, but one that gave the Greenmen, Druids, and Children of the Forest time to complete their preparations, and, when the High King arrived, they needed only wait for Torrhen to command them begin.  
  
The King in the North gave his people one more day of rest before speaking the words that would doom Aegon for the final time.  
  
“Let it be so.”  
  
And so, when the sun set to herald darkness, and the torches lit up the night, [it began](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hNu6FmaUIB0&ab_channel=Heilung).  
  
The first to bring their offerings to the _De Højeste_ were the companions of every skinchanger and warg present, and hundreds, if not thousands of animals, prey and beast alike, gave their blood to the gods. Some, like the direwolf packs of Winterfell, lay heaps of freshly killed game beneath the Great Weirwood, letting the roots of the sacred tree bind themselves around the offerings and merge them into the ground. Other animals, smaller ones, or one that did not subsite off hunting meat, offered blood from themselves, scratching, pecking, or biting small wounds into themselves and letting the blood seep into the ground. Once they had done so, the beasts slunk back into the shadows of the Fenrirfiodh, joining the Children in their silent, vigilant watch.  
  
Then came the captives who had been taken to Torrhen’s Square, marched through the throng of Northmen before the _Àite Dhè_ bound by chains. Some were weeping, many were cursing every man and god there was, and yet more even more of them were silent,  
  
Even the Ironborn kept their wails quiet, on the account that all with the iron in their blood had their eyes and tongues gouged out.  
  
Though the Ironborn were the outliers here, it was to be argued that they would be shown mercy, for they were to be offered up first besides the thieves of the North. So it was that the magnars, chieftains, and Lords of the North unsheathed their bronze swords, and set at it, beheading them swiftly and efficiently before piling them before the Weirwood to be taken as well. As the deathly-pale roots encroached from the earth to drag the corpses beneath, many of the remaining captives began to beg, plead, that they would not be granted such a death.  
  
Unfortunately for them, that wish would be granted.  
  
The Lords of the North stepped back before the Oathsworn began to corral the murderers of the North towards the inner circle of the _Àite Dhè_ before starting the ritual anew, only, these men met a far more terrible fate than their precursors.  
  
For their crimes against then North, they were to be hung by their entrails and left to bleed.  
  
And that is what they did.  
  
The gurgles and screams of dying men as they were indeed hung by their own bodies upon the many branches of the _Darach Rìgh-Chathair_ echoed almost in symphony with the drums the Children of the Forest beat in the darkness, melding with the chants of the Druids and merging with the whispered prayers of the Greenmen, all the while the white branches of the Weirwood ran red.  
  
Then, at last, the rapists of the North were brought forth.  
  
There was to be no begging, no mercy.  
  
The gods had no such things for them.  
  
One by one, the last offerings were lain face-up upon a prepared slab of ironwood, chained, and were left to the mercy of their punishment.  
  
And those who would dish out that punishment to them stepped forward, mallets in hand.  
  
With frightening precision and patience, the Jotun Lords of the North strode forth with their massive warhammers, and as each man was lain upon the slab, gently placed the flat of their hammer upon their lower body and, slowly, but surely, pressed down.  
The screams that emanated from the punished surpassed all those that came before them that night as their femurs, as well as the rest of their lower, then middle body, were slowly broken to a point beyond no repair. It was done in such a way that no adrenaline could kick in to alleviate the excruciating pain, and the offerings were left with naught but their screams and the pain that caused it.  
  
Then, those who had been offered in such a way were unceremoniously thrown into dark pits at the edge of the _Darach Rìgh-Chathair_ , for they were, even in death, unworthy to have their blood soak the grounds of the _Àite Dhè_ , nor were they worthy to die underneath the eyes of the Weirwoods. They would rot in complete darkness, with not even the strength to cry out in pain or for mercy, and those who survived the night would only awake to find themselves in the process of being buried alive.  
  
As the last of the executions were completed, the drum beats and the chanting that echoed throughout the Fenrirfiodh increased to an almost fervent pace, and so did the Northmen bathing in the sound. Mormonts went into berserkr states. Starks, ulfhedinn, and even the King of Winter himself, fell into their wolf trances. And hundreds of other Northmen let out shouts of praise or submission to the Old Gods of the Forest as they danced around the _Darach Rìgh-Chathair_ with the fervor of the drums.  
  
And then, just as the moon above reached its zenith, it all abruptly stopped.  
  
The King of Winter, Torrhen the Defiant, held his hands high as if in epiphany, and stared into the eyes of his gods.  
  
All were silent. No drums, no chants, no whispers. No man spoke, no wolves howled, and no wind blew through the _Àite Dhè_.  
  
Then Torrhen turned, eyes naught but white blanks, and spoke.  
  
“ _Thoir thugam iad_.”  
  
Bring them.  
  


* * *

  
Visenya and Rhaenys were brought before the _Darach Rìgh-Chathair_ first to await their brother, though both Targaryen women wore blindfolds, for the Great _Rud_ was not theirs to witness. Though it mattered little, for where they stood, the two children of Valyria had heard all the _Rud_ had to offer, and knew what awaited their brother-husband.  
  
Oddly enough, it was Visenya who wept first, tears silently streaming down her cheeks, already having lost composure in the face of Aegon’s painful death. In her place, Rhaenys stood, shaking, but strong, forcing herself to be the pillar that her sister so desperately needed.  
  
The two Targaryens were moved to the side, and, to their horror, their blindfolds were abruptly removed, revealing the _Àite Dhè_ to them, as well as the King of Winter, whose face had twisted into a cold snarl.  
  
“You. Will. Watch. This.”  
  
Then Torrhen turned to his people and addressed for the final time that night, for he would speak only to the gods afterwords.  
  
“It is the Hour of the Wolf. It is time.”  
  
And, at last, Aegon Targaryen, the Would-Be Conqueror, was brought forward.  
  
For the first time in two weeks, his sister-wives caught sight of him, and oh how they despaired.  
  
The Would-Be Conqueror had been stripped to the barest of garments, and having been forced to walk across snowy grounds barefooted, looked in danger of collapsing on the spot. All across Aegon’s pale body, blood-red runic spirals etched into his skin by knifepoint stood out like red sap trickling down a weirwood trunk. Longevity, the runes read. Life, full-blood, healing.  
  
Those runes were not there to wish him well, no.  
  
They were there to ensure Aegon’s suffering was long.  
  
And it was.  
  
To his credit, the Would-be Conqueror did not bed for mercy of leniency when he was tied between two poles before the _Darach Rìgh-Chathair_. He did not tremble when Torrhen came forth, a blade of bronze and iron in hand. He did not flinch as the drums once more began to beat, slow and [methodic](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KIbIIfQAdM0&ab_channel=MaciejZwanyCiastkiem).  
  
But, when the King of Winter began the final offering of the _Rud_ , he did scream.  
  
And _oh_ , how he screamed.  
  
As Torrhen carved his way into the back of the Would-Be Conquerors body, Aegon did his best to remain quiet, but all-too-soon the pain passed his tolerance threshold, and scream he did for all to hear.  
  
Torrhen worked slowly, precisely, making sure never to cut in the places that would see Aegon bleed out in minutes despite the runes, but the Targaryen still bled, first in trickles, then in streams and his inner back was slowly exposed to the sight of the _De Højeste._  
  
Rhaenys and Visenya, though they tried many times to look away, were forced to watch their brother, King, and husband bleed to death by Blood Eagle.  
  
And, when the dead was done, and Aegon’s flesh was spread and displayed like the wings of a bird mid-flight, he was raised high above the ground, twin beams suspending him for all to see, red fluid splattering on the ground below.  
  
And then, once more, Torrhen spoke.  
  
Not to his people.  
  
Not to the Targaryens.  
  
The King of Winter spoke only to his gods.  
  
“Before the _Darach Rìgh-Chathair_ , here within the _Àite Dhè_ with all the North my witness, I proclaim our fealty to the _De Højeste_.  
  
To the Old Ones of the Forest, the Deities of the Children, the Gods of the First Men, we pledge to you this gift. A sign of our eternal devotion, doused in the fire and blood of those who would see thy roots torn asunder! Hearth, harvest, and blood of heart we offer unto you, by the laws of earth, sea, and sky! By the blood drawn by bronze and iron! By the Pact sealed by Ice and Fire!”  
  
Upon finishing his prayer, Torrhen fell to a knee, with all the North following, and all was silent save the sobs of both Rhaenys and Visenya and the dying breaths of Aegon.  
  
...at least, until the Would-Be Conqueror lifted his eyes to the heavens with what little strength he had left, and spoke one last time.  
  
“ _Oh jorrāelagon biarves, skoro syt emagon ao forsaken nyke_?”  
  
 _Oh dear fortune, why have you forsaken me?_  
  
Then Aegon Targaryen, the Would-Be Conqueror, the Rider of Balerion, the Lord of Dragonstone, Shield of his People, and King of All Westeros, hung his head and died.  
  
And the dreams of an Iron Throne died with him.  
  


* * *

  
“ _Athair_ , you asked for me.”  
  
Theodal Stark, eldest son of the King of Winter, entered his father’s war room with a tad bit of hesitation. When Torrhen had abruptly summoned him to the meeting, he had, of course, wondered as to why, and the solemn expression on the High King’s face, as well as the looks on the face of every other Lord in the room had the young man on edge. “... _Athair_? Is all well?” Surely, there could be nothing amiss? The Would-be Conqueror was dead, the North having danced around his displayed corpse in celebration. The Targaryen women were being kept under close watch, so they could not have slit their own throats. The Boltons would be foolish to even think of attempting to rise against the Starks, and from what Theodal understood, the Andallands were embroiled in yet another conflict which would prevent them from sending aid to the Arryns.  
  
Torrhen looked up the the slip of parchment he had been reading and handed it to his son, a pensive look on his face. “I am unsure, Theodal. The news we’ve just received… changes things.” The High King of Winter took a breath. “The situation in the Vale has changed. The Bronze King marches without us, but still with aid. The Griffin King lives.”  
  
Theodal’s mouth gaped open. _Runestone marches? The Griffin King **lives**?!_ “If they’ve begun to move without us, then that means…”  
  
Torrhen nodded, and stood, expression firm and resolute. “We can no longer wait. The banners will march within the sennight. And you will go with them. You will lead them. The Lords of the North have agreed to this.” That was met by nods and voices of affirmation around the room, and Theodal steeled his gaze. They cannot see me anxious. If I am to rule, I must be as firm as my ancestors  
  
Then the Prince of Winter looked over the parchment his father had given him, before slowly nodding, face determined. _The time is upon us._  
  
“Then I shall depart as soon as I can. I will not fail you, my Lords..”  
  
At that, Lord Karstark raised his meadhorn to Theodal. “I’ll drink to that, Your Grace! To the Reconquest!”  
  
And, with whoops and warcries, the Lords of the Norths raised their horns in turn.  
  
The North prepared to march South once more.


	10. The King in the High Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Reach goes to war.

_**“For the King in the Hightower!”** -Rallying cry of the Second Kingdom of the Reach_  
  
While the First Men of the Vale rose up in fury not seen since the Seven Stars, and the Northerners executed the Would-Be Conqueror before their Old Gods, the Reach prepared for war.  
  
Harlan Tyrell, self-proclaimed ‘King of the Reach,’ had, for the last several months, recruited thousands of Dragonmen from those that survived the Battle of the South Banks and the fracturing that followed, all with the intention of securing House Tyrells’ paramountcy over the Reach now that both the Gardner Kings and Aegon had fallen, and he was right to do so. Following his declaration, the Lords of the Reach began to once again muster their banners to make war, either for the Tyrells or against them.  
  
While several factions existed within the Reach, with the the Gardner Kings that had kept them together were dead, there was only one large enough to truly contest Harlan’s claim to Highgarden; the Hightower-Florent alliance, both Houses who vehemently opposed House Tyrell’s (admittedly weaker than others) claim to Highgarden and the Throne of Thorns. To this end, Harlan, not wishing to be completely surrounded by their allies, arranged a hasty marriage by marrying his heir, Theo Tyrell, to a daughter of the Tarlys of Horn Hill, and dictated a quick raven to Lorren Lannister asking for an alliance. Harlan never had the time to see if the King of the Rock ever sent a reply before news of a Hightower-Florent army made itself known, and he was forced to take the field.  
  
Meanwhile, the Hightower-Florent faction appeared to be following the example of their enemies-- Manfred Hightower, having declared himself the King in the Hightower, married his heir off to a daughter of House Florent, sealing their alliance and combining their claims. However, Manfred had been far more proactive in preparing for the conflict than the Tyrells had been, having sent a raven to Lorren Lannister several months before the idea had even occurred to Harlan, eventually managing to wrangle an alliance out the Lion King-- all Lannister ships from Lannisport would, for a period of two years, be subject to reduced tariffs in both Oldtown, the Shield Islands, and the Arbor, should Lorren throw his support behind them. And though Lorren could not, and would not, officially muster his banners to march into the Reach (the last time he had done so had ended in disaster, something he knew the Westerlords whispered behind his back), he would allow ‘volunteers’ to march south and join the host mustering beneath the walls of the Hightower.  
  
When the call was put out for said volunteers, thousands of knights, men-at-arms, and even levies answered the call-- many wishing to avenge the loss taken on the Field of Fire, and many more answering to the High Septon’s call to purge Westeros of “the false Valyrian daemons and their worshippers.” So it was that hundreds of ships set sail from Lannisport, all headed to Old Town, a moon before Harlan’s raven reached Lorren, who took a glance at it before tossing it into a nearby fire.  
  
With the newly arrived Westerlander volunteers bolstering their numbers, the Hightower-Florent faction at last began to march on their enemies, and the Tyrell-Tarly marched to meet them. The rest of the Reach, those who had yet to declare for any one side, waited in anticipation for the outcome.  
  
The opening act of the War for the Throne of Thorns began when two groups of outriders from the opposing sides met each other quite by accident, inciting a small skirmish that quickly broke into a full-fledged battle as both sides quickly began to dedicate forces to what appeared to be an enemy host. By that point, William Hightower, the commander of the Hightower-Florent host, had split his host into two-- twenty-thousand marched to the north-east to besiege Horn Hill while the remaining thirty one-thousand moved to take Highgarden. It was the latter host that would be pulled into the Battle of Mander’s Split, being held back by the Tyrell host before Harlan’s center collapsed and the Tyrells were forced to withdraw the field, leaving their lands open to William’s host.  
  
Meanwhile, the First Battle off the Rose Road saw the small host turned back before even marching in sight of Horn Hill’s walls, being caught off guard by Lord Jarrad Tarly, who had hidden host behind a hill, part of the Red Mountain range, before ordering a sudden cavalry charge into their easternmost flank. Reeling from the sudden assault, the Hightower-Florent host was caught off-footed as the Tyrell-Tarly army maneuvered out to face them. Thanks in part to the element of surprise, as well as Lord Jarrad’s knowledge of the land, the Hightower-Florent host were pushed back before ultimately retreat, though, to their credit, the Hightower-Florent men under Lord Albert Florent retreated in good order and prevented a rout to occur, loosing only two of the twenty-thousand.  
  
Though, not all had gone to Jarrad’s wants-- he had planned to shatter the enemy host completely, leaving Oldtown open to attack. However, with the escaped army no doubt on guard and holding any path to the Hightower, Lord Tarly decided it was best to link up with the main Tyrell host near Highgarden. Unfortunately for him, the Hightower-Florent host shadowed his every move during his march to Highgarden, killing outriders, shooting down ravens, and raiding the ends of the columns. Before long, he tired of the harassment and turned to face them.  
  
That was a mistake.  
  
With the news of the Mander's Split having restored their morale, the Hightower-Florent army attack with a vigor that had been absent at the First Battle off the Rose Road. Unlike that first battle, however, the Second Battle of the Rose Road saw Lord Jarrad slain in battle by a Westerlander night and the Tarly host shattered, sent running back to Horn Hill or abandoning the cause altogether.  
  
With Lord Jarrad out of the way the Hightower-Florent host once more set out to complete their task, only to find an unwelcome surprise awaiting them upon reaching it-- the banners of the Storm Queen flying over the walls, and a small Stormlander army below them.  
  
A hasty parlay answered how this came to be-- fearing for her House upon learning of her husband’s fall, Nera Tarly had sent word by raven to Argella Durrandon, inviting her Stormlords to absorb Horn Hill and its surrounding lands into her Queendom, though even Nera had been surprised at how quickly the Storm Queen had responded.  
  
With the question of how answered, the question became what to do about it. Leaving the Tarlys unpunished was undesirable, Lord Albert knew, but war with the Stormlands was even more so, and that was what would occur if he attempted to take Horn Hill.  
  
So it was that the Lord of Brightwater Keep reluctantly recalled his troops and marched north to join his liege lord.  
  
He did not know it at the time, but it was his loss of Horn Hill that won Hightower the war.  
  


* * *

  
_Where had this all gone wrong?_  
  
That thought, and ones similar to it were the ones racing through William Hightower’s head as he brought he head down on yet another Tyrell man, only to be, yet again, beset upon by another.  
  
It had been like that for hours, now, when Harlan Tyrell’s host had suddenly turned after almost a fortnight of running and forced a battle.  
  
 _The fool I was. I let them lead me on._ So caught up he was on annihilating the Tyrel host to safely siege Highgarden that he’d not thought to pay attention to where they were running to-- and, apparently, that had been to another faction’s host that had seemingly decided that Tyrell paramountcy was something they could live with. As soon as his numbers had been replenished, Harlan had turned his men around and attacked in the night, catching William’s host of guard. Should he survive this, he would forever be thankful that he had insisted on all men keeping their weapons and armor on hand. _Gods, the casualties we would have taken--_  
  
The Hightower Lord’s thoughts were suddenly brought back to reality by a morningstar narrowly missing his head, and suddenly, he found himself before the ‘King of the Reach’ himself, no doubt having lost his personal guard in the melee.  
  
 _Here is my chance! Forward!_  
  
Brandishing his sword once more, William spurred his horse onwards as he rushed the mounted Tyrell King with a fire burning in his heart--  
  
\--only for his horse to take an arrow to the head and fall.  
  
He had barely the time to pull his legs from the stirrups before crashing into the ground, losing his sword in the process. Groaning, the Hightower sat up groggily, only for a foot to press his back into the dirt. Looking upwards, William saw his death take the form of Harlan Tyrell, and beneath his helm, he sighed.  
  
 _Killed by a King. Not the worst way to die.  
  
Forgive me, Imogen. It appears I won’t be able to come home._  
  
The Tyrell King was saying something, to him or to someone close by, he knew not, but William tuned it out regardless. He did feel like having the last words he hear uttered to be his enemy.  
  
Seemingly finished speaking, Harlan raised his morningstar--  
  
\--only for the action to be cut short as a hand grabbed the fore of Harlan’s helm and drag the Tyrell King back, exposing his neck before slashing a sword across it, painting it crimson.  
  
William watch, stunned, as the King of the Reach, the man who had been about to kill him, fell dead besides him, before suddenly his savior was helping off of the ground. “Lord William! Are you well? When I saw your sigil in the ground, I thought the worst!”  
  
Somewhat amused by what appeared to be the concern of a hedge knight, William shook his head. “Nay, I am well. My thanks, good ser.”  
  
It was only then that William noticed the Tyrell men were routing, and he heard the sounds of hoofbeats in the distance.  
  
“Tis Lord Florent, Lord William!” the hedge knight exclaimed, relief evident in his voice. “His cavalry has come to relieve us!”  
  
William smiled and inwardly thanked the Seven for whatever had brought his friend here in time to save them. “Then the battle is won, my friend. Victory is ours.” Then he turned to the hedge knight, and asked him a question. “What is your name, good man? Who is the man who saved my from an untimely demise?”  
  
The knight looked startled at the question, before he answered. “Maximillian, Lord William. Formerly of Acorn Hall.”  
  
“Aah, nobility, then, of the Riverlands. a second son?  
  
“Fourth, actually.”  
  
William nodded at that, before turning away to find himself a horse. He needed to speak with Lord Florent. “I’ll be sure to remember your name, Maximillian. Seek me out when we take Highgarden.”  
  
With that, the Lord Hightower mounted a riderless horse before riding off to find Albert.  
  
 _There are many things I must convey to him, and the first will be my thanks._  
  


* * *

  
Harlan’s Haste, as the battle would soon be known as, was the death knell for House Tyrell’s ambitions. With the Hightower-Florent alliance having emerged victorious, many of the other undecided House of the Reach began to declare for Hightower, leaving the remaining Tyrells in Highgarden bereft of allies. Knowing this, Theo Tyrell, Harlan’s heir, knowing that holding the Highgarden would now be impossible, made the wise decision to abandon the keep, taking all his remaining family, including his Tarly wife, and all his bannermen who still held their loyalty to House Tyrell, and fled Highgarden in the night, setting it to the torch, before quickly riding for the only safe bastion remaining for him-- Aegon’s first conquests, the Dragonlands.  
  
When the Hightower-Florent army finally arrived to besiege Hightower, the were of course horrified at its state. The fires left behind by the Tyrells had severely damaged the keep, but had thankfully kept within its walls and damage to the city outside was minimal. To the relief of the arriving host, the Tyrells had not the time to completely plunder Highgarden’s treasury, leaving much of its gold behind. However, with the state of Highgarden, it was quickly agreed upon that the ancient keep could no longer fulfill its function as the capital of the Reach, and so that designation was given to Oldtown, the largest city in the region, and the seat of the new Kings of the Reach.  
  
With all their objectives complete and the Tyrell dynasty all-but dead, the armies of the Hightower-Florent faction began to disperse after a portion of Highgarden’s gold was split between their men, and many of the Reach Lords joined the long procession back to Oldtown with the intent of swearing fealty to the new King in the Hightower.  
  
There was, of course, discussion on what to do about the Tyrells that had fled to the Dragonlands, but that problem quickly sorted itself out when a raven arrived from the Hightower with news.  
  
The Stormlands had finally arisen from its long silence, and a great host had marched straight into the heart of the Dragonlands-- and, at the Stormlander army’s head rode Orys Durrandon and the Storm Queen herself.  
  
The Conquering Storm had begun.


End file.
